


Unity Day

by sian1359



Series: Tales of the A-Squad [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012), The Unusuals
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Case Fic, Community: casestory, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-16 15:10:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 44,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/863423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sian1359/pseuds/sian1359
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Russian Ambassador to the UN has decided to celebrate Unity Day while staying in the States, even though it will anger many in the Russian and Polish communities. The State Department bumps the protection duty of the Ambassador and his daughter to the NYPD, where the Brass decides its the perfect job for Fury's A-Squad, since one of his detectives is a former Russian. Matters become complicated when pop singers get added to the picture, and Natasha's ex-husband.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unity Day

**Author's Note:**

> Auburnnothenna is responsible for making me to the stuff that worked; that which is less than stellar is all mine. 
> 
> This was written for the 2013 Case Story Big Bang; it will hopefully have art added at a later date.
> 
> Technically, is the Tales of the A-Squad #3, but #1 hasn't been finished yet.

 

_Second Squad, this is Dispatch. Captain Xavier over at the One Oh Two just issued a challenge to all precincts involved in tonight's pumpkin carving contest during the Maria Stark Foundation's annual Halloween Fun and Fundraiser.  Xavier is claiming his people will win more individual categories as well as collect the highest number of votes overall. In addition to general bragging rights, he's proposing the losing precincts must send at least ten people to help clean up the winning precinct's streets on New Year's Day. I don't know about all of you, but I sleep in New Year's Day, and if I don't, I'm watching the Rose Bowl Parade. Do not make me alter my routine, people!_

"Natasha, Clint, thank you again for volunteering to help us out this afternoon," Pepper Potts herself greeted them as they walked into the lobby of the Broad Street Ballroom. "You both look incredible."

Clint couldn't help put preen a little since Pepper was right, not that he'd had anything to do with it beyond accepting the costume Tasha had handed over to him. He certainly hadn't cared if the outfit wasn't quite in keeping with the letter of the invitation, was glad, actually, since they did look incredible instead of common or goofy. Fortunately, it didn't appear as if Pepper minded either.

Not that her approval stopped Tasha from apologizing.

"I'm sorry about the glitch in the costumes," she offered, along with a buss to Pepper's cheek that didn't get close enough to smudge the design of Pepper's gorgeously done make-up as a mouse.

"When Clint explained how we could help, I volunteered to handle the costumes before I realized I didn't know many American fairy tale shows," Tasha then began to explain." I did an on-line search for stories about a brother and sister, and I recognized Hansel and Gretel. I checked for images, saw these," with a gesture to their handmade jackets, vests and pants of leather, "and I really liked the corset." She showed off the garment in question by unbuttoning her jacket.

"God, I do too," Pepper agreed. "You will have to give me the name of your tailor or seamstress."

Tasha nodded. "I picked up her card when James and I went to the Ren Faire last month. I knew I was going to have her make something for me, and when the costuming request came up, it seemed the perfect opportunity. Of course, I didn't know the movie these came from wasn't for kids until it was too late to have something else made. Hansel, here," she added, backhanding Clint across the stomach, "proved surprisingly hostile to the idea of picking out something more appropriate from a rental shop. As if costume rental companies don't clean their wares when they're brought back in."

Pepper's smile wasn't as mocking as Tasha's, which allowed Clint to manfully ignore both Tasha's blow and the implied smirch to his manliness. He had perfectly valid reasons for eschewing used clothing, costumes, or bowling shoes; it just wasn't worth trotting them out when Tasha refused to believe him anyway. Plus, Tasha's naiveté and that she still had general faith in people following the rules, no matter that she'd been making her living since her arrival here in the States from Russia busting the people who didn't, was charming.

"Well, the kids are going to love you two, even if they think your characters are from Lord of the Rings or something similar," Pepper said reassuringly. "Besides, I doubt any of them will know I'm anything other than a well-dressed mouse, even if Tony manages to get here in time for them to meet the Great Mouse Detective." 

"He's going with the full make-up too?" Clint had to asked, surprised as hell at the idea.

Pepper's smile this time held more than a little mischief. "The face painters he personally hired to give the kids something of a costume are all professional make-up artists who normally work on Broadway shows. I insisted we take the opportunity to have them decorate us, too. There's still time for you two to get something done if you want."

"Like zombies?" Clint asked, thinking it would be pretty cool to have a professional do that kind of work.

"After the little kids are gone, sure," Pepper agreed even as Tasha hit him again and violently shook her head no.

"We are not going to become zombies," she said very firmly. "We are hunters, the kind of people who kill zombies, not ones who would fall prey to them."

Clint grinned, but nodded. "As you say, but if Bucky comes as a –"

"He is not coming as a zombie. And don't call him Bucky," Tasha adds almost absently.

Clint knows she's mostly given up on the James versus Bucky thing; even she calls him Bucky sometimes, especially after she's been talking to Steve.

"Do you know what he is coming as?" Pepper asked. "Is it something that will coordinate with you two, or …" She trailed off with a speculative look.

Tasha smirked back. "James was fine with the two of us matching, completely on board with the brother and sister thing."

"He also knows I'm bi, and in a committed relationship," Clint reminded them with a dry tone from having to go through this again. Just because two people were partners, didn't mean they also had to be _partners_.

Both women just laughed.

"So did Phil coordinate with you?"  Pepper tried again.

Clint shrugged. "He wouldn't say either, but I doubt it. I'm expecting him to have picked some sort of super hero, like his childhood favorite, Superman."

"Um…" Pepper began with a blush, but Clint took pity on her.

"Yeah, okay, more likely he'd come as Clark Kent than put on a spandex outfit. But you'd be surprised at how good his ass looks in spandex."

Pepper's blush deepened while Tasha simply shook her head.  She'd actually seen them both in all of their glory, walking in on them once at Clint's place when she'd used her key to pick up something she'd left at the diner and gone to investigate the noises upstairs since as far as she'd known, Clint and Phil had gone out for a movie and dinner that night. It had been mildly embarrassing then, mainly just funny to think about now; it wasn't like any of the three of them were particularly body conscious – or had anything to be ashamed of.

Tasha took her own turn at saving Pepper from further embarrassment. "So where do you need us this afternoon?"  They'd become friends – good friends – which had pleased Clint as well as Tony, since he'd known Pepper longer than he'd known Tony, thanks to his relationship with the Foundation, which had started back when Clint had been a teenager.

Clint was proudest of Tasha's friendship with Pepper, not that he'd ever come out and say that – not that he'd had anything to do with it or had any proprietary rights over Tasha just because he was her partner. But he'd seen how difficult Tasha had had it in being the only woman in the A-Squad as well as having come to them from Internal Affairs. Tasha had spent her first months at the Second proving she had what it took to be there: solving cases; taking down perps; out-drinking even Tony; and taking down both Steve and Thor during hand-to-hand training with her skill in Wushu, as she'd identified her fighting style. Despite being a very private person, she'd gone out of her way to make nice with the woman over in the B-side although the two squads didn't exactly co-mingle very often since they worked distinctly different cases and often on different shifts. Nor had she baulked at the gatherings after hours: putting up with the newbie and probie bullshit; buying her own rounds; getting to know the girlfriends and dates. Tasha had been much more concerned with getting everyone to trust than befriend her, but the friendships had come right alongside her integration with squad, making things easier for everyone.

Pepper walked them past the curtains into the main ballroom, the front of which was now festooned with brightly colored booths. "After the buses arrive with the kids, and everyone gets their faces painted," she said with a gesture to the tables and chairs set along the side, "I figured we'd start with the haunted house for the littlest kids who want to go through it, while the older ones descend on the carnival booths." One hand pointed toward the stairs leading up to the second level, while the other gestured to encompass the booths. 

"We've got professionals, again, to handle the games, but I thought it would be a good idea to have chaperones on hand in the haunted house. An adult on hand that they can cling to if they get too scared, and someone to help them get through it if they get lost. I was hoping you two would be okay with handling that, along with Detective Logan and his young man. Your costumes as witch hunters will fit right in with Logan's Van Helsing as protectors."

"And Remy's?" Clint asked, though he was pretty sure of the answer – and just how hot a vampire Remy LeBeau would make.

Pepper shrugged. "This time Dracula is going to be a good vampire."

"Well, Remy does rather sparkle," was Tasha's contribution.

*******

Haunted House duty turned out to consist of ten fifteen-minute tours, each with up to seven kids per guide, and a fun way to spend a couple of hours. The organization the Foundation had hired to stage everything had done a terrific job, creating quite a maze and at least twenty themed tableaus along with the usual Halloween shit that moaned or moved or leapt out when you weren't expecting it. Most of his kids had been fascinated, and scared, but no one peed their pants and there had only been a few tears so, overall, quite a success as far as Clint was concerned.

It turned out that both Tasha and Pepper were remarkably horrible at relating to the kids. For all his gruffness, even Logan did better with the  tots, who didn't want to give up their time with him, unlike those being guided by Tasha or Pepper, while Clint and Remy had to really sell that it was time for them to go get their treat bags after most every tour; their kids wanted to go through it again.

Tasha, unsurprisingly, grew annoyed about what she perceived as a failing on her part, not even letting Pepper mollify her with remarks about how much better she'd no doubt be with the older kids, the ones who would really look up to Tasha for her forthright manner and brutal pragmatism. Clint stayed out of it; Tasha had made up her mind that kids hated her and nothing he might add would get her to change her mind, at least not unless he could find a kid who would cling to more than just her braided hair if she picked them up.

"A fine partner you are," she growled at him when he sat her down to redo the braid that had been nearly completely unraveled by the last little boy. 

"I know," Clint responded with a big grin and a little tug on her hair himself. "You're lucky I'm okay with embracing my stereotype, and that I really do know how to do hair. I could do a french braid if you'd like, make it a little harder for someone to pull it loose?"

She shrugged, which Clint took for assent. Memories of his time in the orphanage and then, later on the street, were always near the forefront of his thoughts when he interacted so closely with the Foundation, but at least learning how to do hair and make-up was one of the happier memories of his youth.  Street and orphan girls were vicious, while the boys had generally been bullies or pushovers, and getting a few on his side because of how useful he could be to them had gone a long way toward smoothing some of Clint's interactions with the ones who'd decided they didn't like him.

Just as he was finishing the last twists, his phone buzzed with an incoming message. Without thinking much about it, he pulled Tasha's hand up to hold everything in place over her shoulder while he dug his phone out of the pouch their seamstress had added to each of their belts for necessary stuff like phones and ID.  Tasha complied without protest, something Clint was only surprised about after he read the message from Phil and took a minute to be frustrated and maybe a little pissed off.

_Just leaving station now, sorry. If Tony asks, it's all Jasper's fault._

Just leaving meant Phil would be at least an hour, if not longer. Not something Clint could really get pissed about, but nothing he was happy to hear, either.

"Problems?" Tasha asked.

"Phil's running late is all. I guess I'll have to hang out with you and Bucky, assuming he ever gets here himself."

"Worry about being entertained after you fix my hair, Barton."

******

"Indiana Jones, Phil? Isn't that a little… pedestrian?" Tony asked with a wave toward the extremely colorful costumes most of the people were wearing around them and then to Phil's quite serviceable leather jacket, Fedora and whip.

"At least people know who I am, Stark?" Phil responded with just an arch of an eyebrow while Clint sniggered. "What are you, Shermouse Holmes?"

Tony visibly puffed up and straightened his ascot, because of course he'd gone for the smoking jacket and high collar to go with his deerstalker, over the more traditional cape coat. "I am Basil, not Sherlock. Or _Shermouse_ ," he informed them.  "Just as Pepper is Olivia, and Happy is Major Dr. David Q. Dawson, previously of the Queen's 66th Regiment, not Irene or Watson."

Clint recognized Happy by name, assumed he had the other distinctive mouse makeup that matched Tony and Pepper's but it took him a moment to place why he knew the man outside of the costume. Right, one of Tony's friends and an employee at Stark Industries who had helped out a year ago when they'd needed to comb through the Bronx Zoo for that Hammer guy who thought he could become a super-villain straight out of the comic books, complete with henchmen and death rays.

"My apologies, _Basil_. I guess my knowledge of children's movies is too limited," Phil apologized, while managing to also make it sound as if the fault was Tony's—something Phil was a master at – since it wasn't like Tony had any kids, nieces or nephews to watch kid's movies with.

Clint sniggered again, though silently this time since they were here to help Tony and the Foundation he'd set up in his mother's name, not to take pot shots. "Have you seen any of the rest of us?" he asked instead to distract Tony from looking for the insult.

Tony nodded. "I ran into Bruce and Betty while Bruce was getting his own face job. I'd thought they'd decided on Aragorn and Arwen, but turns out they've come as Belle and the Beast. You really do need to check Bruce out. He looks fantastic, almost as good as I do."

'Isn't that Steve and Darcy over there?" Phil suggested with a hand toward a very busty Dorothy and a very buff Scarecrow.  Darcy's Toto was a plush terrier stuffed into a picnic basket, while Steve had opted to stiffen his own hair with product instead of wearing straw.

" _Hello_ , Dorothy," Tony catcalled, though not loud enough to be heard beyond the three of them. "Do you think Pepper would look good in gingham?"

"I think Pepper looks stunning in whatever she chooses to wear, and you can be a classless asshole, Tony," Clint admonished him. "You owe both Pepper and Darcy an apology."

"Don't get your panties in a twist, leather boy," Tony retorted back. "Appreciating does not mean degrading – or betraying – as you well know, Mr.  Who-Knew-Detective-Logan-Would-Look-So-Hot-With –Long-Hair. Not to mention that even Pepper has commented on how fabulous Darcy's rack is."

Clint scowled, but couldn't exactly refute Tony over the Logan comment. Logan's partner, Remy LeBeau, might be considered to have the more classic good looks between the two of them, but Logan was certainly hot in his own way; mostly due to his confidence, brutal honesty and no bullshit attitude and not the hair extensions Remy must have talked him into for tonight, along with his own version of a pseudo-historical leather coat and waistcoat.

"Now, if he'd just gone with the same kind of tight fitting leather pants that you did – "

"Oh, look, here comes Captains Fury and Hill," Phil interrupted by stepping between them, not that he and Tony were really fighting.

"Jedi? That's original," Tony snorted when he turned to look. "Were there any Jedi that wore eye patches?" He then looked back expectantly to Phil since he was their closet geek when it came to science fiction and stuff.

Not that Tony bothered to wait to see if Phil would answer. "Of course, even without the patch, he and the lovely Captain Hill seem better suited to being Sith, don't you think?"

"Just keep digging that hole, Tony," Phil muttered before stepping forward to greet their boss and the Captain of the 5th Precinct.

While Phil and Fury held some sort of exchange, Captain Hill looked Clint and Tony's direction, a pleased yet smug expression giving some credence to Tony's Sith comment. Her precinct had taken top honors in four categories of the pumpkin carving contest and come within ten votes of winning the overall. The 2nd had won the overall, but only two individual winners themselves (thanks to Thor proving remarkably skilled in creating an intricate cityscape of New York and Jasper managing a recognizable scene of Harry Potter fighting Voldemort to take the kid's favorite). That had left it to the six precincts who'd participated to determine who'd won, with the decision being that the 2nd and the 5th had tied. Really, though, all that had mattered was that Xavier's crew ended up last in the overall despite managing three top individual winners.

They'd probably take the top costume honors, however, given that except for Captain Xavier himself, and Logan and Remy, the detectives had chosen to come as a group, with Summers and his ADA lady friend dressed as Disney's Prince Charming and Cinderella, with the others taking on the roles of Fairy Godmother (Oror ~~r~~ o), Footmen (Kurt and Peter) and the Evil Stepmother (Marie). There not being that many fictional characters portrayed in wheelchairs, especially in kid's films, the 102nd's Captain had chosen to come as Dr. Strangelove, complete with wig, glove and tinted glasses that looked quite a bit like the ones Tony often sported.

The competitions, of course, were done all in good fun, with no one really caring about winning beyond the bragging rights. The real reason for challenges like Xavier's was to help raise additional money, as well as to show the civilian attendees that members of the NYPD weren't always threatening or serious.  That's why Clint was willing to stay through the night, long after the kids had been taken back to their parents or group homes, and play at small talk and politics and otherwise be bored to death.

Not so much tonight, though, when just watching Jane and Thor as Snow White and the Huntsman try to negotiate the dance floor with their height differential of a good foot provided entertainment as well as added to the warm, fuzzy feelings that came from seeing Bucky's Mad Hatter ala Johnny Depp (minus the orange fright wig), wooing Tasha with Halloween candy.

It would have been great if he and Phil could have indulged in a little of that, but Clint was a firm believer in picking battles for the greater good, and while being out and proud was a good fight, doing so at the expense of kids he was trying to help was not. Hostile or even uncomfortable donors didn't give very much money. There was also the matter of the wrong people within the Department maybe finding out about their relationship should they do anything overt. While Clint felt that Phil was worth losing his job over, if it came to that, just the chance that it might be Phil who'd bear the brunt of the discipline and consequences instead kept Clint from waging that battle yet.

One of these days, though.

Phil and Fury finally finished their private conversation, Phil returning to Clint's side (but not standing too close), while Fury and Captain Hill exchanged something that had Captain Hill heading away and Fury coming closer.

"Nice turnout, Stark," he greeted them. "I see that the Mayor made it this year. Don't know who suggested he should come as the Disney Hercules, but they should be shot. And was that Senator Stern that I saw dressed up as a Turtle? Surprised he could get past his animosity with you even if tonight is about the kids."

"I might have personally extended the invitation, along with a mention of the big check Stark Industries will be presenting the Foundation tonight," Tony mentioned with an absolutely wicked smile. "That check which reflects point two percent of the gross our new arc fuel cell has earned in its first year of commercial production that is embodiment of SI's future now that it's no longer a government contractor, the same fuel cell that Sterns promised would never be anything but a pipe dream when he said how much he was looking forward to the company crawling back to the government's teat."

"Yeah, well, as much as he deserves your I-told-you-so, I wouldn't suggest you get so carried away with rubbing his face in it. I also happened to notice that the Police Commissioner made an appearance tonight. He's the Woody from Toy Story in the really ill-fitting shirt, dragging the deputy mayor out onto the dance floor."

Although the words were spoken to Tony, Fury's one eye was fixed on the not quite as much space between Clint and Phil as there had been when Fury had first arrived.

Yeah, yeah, message received.

 

_Second Squad, this is Dispatch. I have been asked to remind you that although Election Day is right around the corner, the NYPD is officially apolitical. This means no canvasing, harassing or touting your personal candidates or positions on the propositions on departmental time or premises, including through the internet, even if Grumpy Cat is voting yes on One and Two._

"You do know, sir, that every time you call one or both of us into your office or you otherwise get directly involved in a case, it always goes bad?"

Although she'd phrased and inflected her words as a question as she entered Fury's office, nothing uncertain showed in Tasha's expression or in the little smile that barely lifted her lips. Phil, already seated in front of Fury's desk, managed to keep his own expression deadpan against her obvious disgruntlement. Clint wasn't sure if her pique was in reaction to Fury's instant expression of displeasure over what she had just implied or was because she had a hangover. As such, he was having trouble keeping his own poker face, though mostly at the thought of Tasha having a hangover, since he sorta agreed with her sentiment. Their track record on cases Fury assigned as opposed to Phil, while they could be counted as successes as far as the bad guys being stopped, had all come with greater than normal headaches, not to mention a few more significant injuries to someone within the squad.

"Seriously," Tasha continued, ignoring him and Phil both despite the clear evidence of Fury's rising temper.

Maybe Fury had his own hangover; he and Captain Hill had been some of the last to leave the fundraiser.  Not having to experience hangovers was just one of a list of reasons Clint never drank.

In pain or not, Tasha still moved like a ninja, stealing the last good chair next to Phil, which left Clint having to bring one of the straight backed monstrosities forward if he didn't wanted to feel like he'd been banished to the kid's table while the grownups talked.

"Seriously, between Detective Selvig's death and Phil's getting shot when you brought me in during the Loki-Thor thing – "

Oh, god, she was actually listing them!

" – Johann Schmidt deciding Steve was the reason for his disfigurement, that whole Justin Hammer super-villain fatuity, Bruce nearly arrested for assaulting General Ross, and the incidents with Von Doom, the Magnificent Modok, and the way Captain Hill nearly kneecapped me when I suggested – "

Clint had to stop her. "Forgive her, sir," he interrupted, actually going so far as to take his life in his hands by putting one of them over Tasha's mouth to shut her up. "If you remember, she always says she was born in a manger, which I imagine means the same thing as being born in a barn with a bad translation. Although, with her being Russian, she might mean that literally, and we all know she doesn't believe in God."

Without meaning to, Clint caught Phil's eye, and his struggled to keep his serious face in spite of what Clint knew was mostly babble and mostly likely provoking, both Tasha and Fury. Phil managed though, despite, Tasha's eyes of outrage, which was one of the many things Clint found totally hot about his lover, along with his studious face when he wore his reading glasses, or his smirky face when he pulled something on Tony or Steve – 

"Actually, Detective _Romanov_ ," Fury emphasized with a pointed look at the hand Clint still held against Tasha's lips, "I thought I was going to do you another favor. If you'd prefer, I can dismiss you and your idiot partner, and just give Phil your marching orders."  He, of course, had no need to restrain himself, not as their boss or just because he seemed to enjoy living up to his surname.

Still, Clint was pretty sure the gleam visible in Fury's uncovered eye was amusement, not anger.

Tasha's outrage turned into a very visible glower, then an attack that Clint couldn't help yipping at. He'd been expected a lick at some point from her, but not a goddamn bite! He dropped his hand.

"Sorry, sir," she then apologized, although her gesture went in Clint's direction as if she was apologizing for him, not herself. "Please go ahead."

Fury held onto his stare down a beat longer, reminding the three of them that his reputation as the baddest bad ass captain in the entire NYPD was wholly deserved.  Clint immediately sobered. Tasha quickly let go both the teasing and the pique and sat back with a matching look of attention.

Phil, of course, had never not looked attentive.

Clint doubted they were in trouble, though. He suspected Fury was just as happy as he was to see that Natasha felt comfortable enough to go along with his antics and tease back in front of the others. She'd been a long time reaching that point.  Even after one and a half years, Clint still wasn't sure if her initial reticence had been a natural part of her personality, something she'd been trained into with her work for the KGB's successor in her native Russia, or because she'd come from the Internal Affairs Bureau before joining the 2nd, and so figured no one would like or trust her anyway. He supposed it didn't really matter, anyway, and he should just be grateful that she had found her place with them.

"I think we all can agree that last night's fundraiser was quite the success, both in term of raising money for the kids, and in that everything went along smoothly, with no need to call ambulances or any patrols still on duty. I personally want to commend you two for your volunteer work to help make it such a success."

Only Nick Fury could so expertly make praise sound like criticism, leaving Clint to wonder how the other shoe was going to be dropped. And on which of their heads. Phil must have read it that way too, as he surreptitiously knocked his hand against Clint's though he didn't go so far as to grab or hold it.

"One Police Plaza happens to agree," Nick continued, his voice taking on that mild tone of amazement that was really just sarcasm. "The Commissioner was especially taken with you, Detective Romanov. I won't repeat the comments he made about your costume, but suffice it to say, he was impressed. He was also impressed to find out that you came from Russia and chose to become a naturalized citizen who chose to come work for him. Turns out, he had a special need for someone like that and he's decided you will fit his need perfectly."

Tasha was speechless, but not in a good way, going by how her eyes had narrowed into slits that matched the thin line of pressed lips. While Clint didn't think whatever the Police Commissioner wanted was really that thing her mind couldn't help going to, he wasn't particularly reassured to see that Phil's expression was now just as pinched.

"Ah, sir?" Clint started to ask anyway, because Fury's deliberate pause was only ratcheting the tension rising all around. "I don't suppose I have anything to say about my partner being reassigned?"

"Don't worry, Barton. You're being reassigned with her. We all are," Fury added with a tone of utter disgust. Then the sarcasm came back, thick and unmistakable.  "It seems that the current Russian Ambassador to the UN, one Boris Turgenov, has decided to celebrate Russian Unity Day this year while he's in town. Publically."

That was not what Clint was expecting to hear. "What the hell is Unity Day?"

"Good question. I had to look it up myself. Would you like to explain, Romanov?"

She shook her head.

"In 2005, Putin reinstated what had been an old holiday before the Russian Revolution."

Because, of course, Phil knew what it was.

"Instead of celebrating the rise of the Bolsheviks over the Tsarist autocracy, they are back to celebrating the time when all Russian people banded together to overthrow the Polish-Lithuanian occupiers in 1612. It's usually celebrated on November 4th. The decision is still mired in controversy."

Tasha nodded in agreement with Phil's explanation, her expression shifting from pissed to wary while Fury let his sarcasm show in his own.

"To say the least," Fury agreed. "The old guard Soviets are pissed at being further marginalized, while more liberal Russians are concerned this is a move toward embracing xenophobia and ultranationalism. And that's not even considering the Polish and Lithuanians who see its return as a nasty effort to minimalize what they went through during the Soviet occupation of their countries. Since the announcement, the Ambassador has received a number of death threats. His Consulate kicked it to our State Department, since no one's sure which side is the most pissed, and they in turn dropped it into One PP's lap. Never one to miss the chance to show the NYPD is as good as or better than the FBI or the NSA, the Commissioner is embracing this opportunity and, because you, Detective Romanov, have just become the most visible Russian within the department, he's turned the investigation and protection details over to us."

"Details?" Phil asked, emphasizing the plural while, no doubt, his brain was already starting to rearrange schedules.

"Details, yes, as in plural," Fury confirmed. "Turgenov has invited a couple of guests to celebrate with him and we are responsible for their safety as well."

"Guests as in other politicos?" Clint had to ask. One would be bad enough, and although the NYPD was getting the responsibility, he had no doubt the Consulate would still be utilizing their own people as well, meaning really that the NYPD's involvement was to assign blame if something happened.

Phil seemed to be still caught in whatever had pinged his tactical mind from the onset while Tasha seemed frozen on finding out she'd become high profile. Or maybe she was simply as offended by the assignment in general as Clint was. Investigating the threats to the Ambassador did fall under their purview, at least on the surface, as the Ambassador was technically a local. But babysitting him or his friends, would take them away from investigating –

"Guests as in Turgenov has a nine-year-old daughter who has decided the person she loves most in the world outside of her father is some seventeen-year-old Russian pop singer. And Justin Bieber. Both of whom Turgenov has convinced to come to New York to perform at a benefit. That's another of the protection details."

"Oh, Hell, no!" Clint blurted out.

"While I feel your pain, Barton," not that Fury sounded all that sympathetic, "it's not your call to make. And, no, Phil, I am not going to make you prove that you don't play favorites just because the two of you are fucking, though I should. It's not even _my_ call to make. The decision has to be Romanov's because the wonder tenors are not the only guests Turgenov has invited."

Worry about who might be worse than two boy-divas had Clint holding back further protest. Parsing the rest of what Fury had said then shifted his worry to Tasha, who seemed taken aback herself. Fury's job was giving them assignments – or giving the tasks to Phil for him to choose the teams – and for something to come up that Fury felt bothered enough by on Tasha's behalf…

"Sir?" she asked in a softer voice than Clint generally heard from her.

Clint would have called Fury's shifting expression guilt, but he didn't do guilt. Maybe remorse was a better descriptor? Frustration as well as regret?

"Turgenov has been in contact with one of the Regents at Queen's College to coordinate and invite a guest lecturer who will speak to the background and history of the holiday. Another single father living in Russia, which is how they became friends. It's Alexei Shostakov," Fury finally stopped hedging, not that the name meant shit to Clint.

"He and his daughter are set to arrive at JFK tomorrow afternoon."

Nothing to Clint, but obviously the name meant something to Tasha. Fair-complected by heritage and design, he'd never seen her skin pale so drastically, not when Phil had been shot, not even when Clint had voluntarily given himself over as a hostage in order to get three students freed from some nutjob who called himself Von Doom. If Clint didn't know any better, he would have said she looked like she might faint.

Fury – and Phil – now looked disturbed as well as concerned.

"Tasha?"

For a second she didn't answer Clint, then all he got was a stream of cursing centered around the word fuck, he thought, going by the few languages he could translate that word into, though if so, she knew it in a remarkable number of additional languages.

"Tash, who is Shostakov?" Clint tried again.

Fury was the one who put them out of their misery. "Her husband."

" _Ex_ -husband," Tasha corrected in as vicious a voice as they'd ever heard from her. "The marriage was never legal. I filed the divorce papers anyway."

"Which he never signed, but if it wasn't legal in the first place, I guess that doesn't matter," Fury tried to placate her as Tasha's paleness was giving way to a rise of color that matched the anger behind her words.

Clint pushed out from his chair and moved to crouch down in front of her, taking both of her hands into his. "Is the daughter yours?"

She gave a strangled laugh and shook her head.  "She would be … sixteen now. Finding out about her existence led me to discover Alexei was already legally married. I left him immediately. Russia too."

Her tone and expression took on a blankness they'd not much seen since the early days, but she was still allowing Clint to contain her hands and stay close, so she wasn't completely closing herself off from them.

"For protection detail, Clint and I will take Alexei and daughter."

The dropped prepositions said she was not good with this at all, that a part of her was back there in Russia even now. Clint squeezed her hands to the point where she focused on the sensation, and pulled to get away before she stopped and focused her attention directly on him with a curve to her lips that was part thanks and part threat for the liberties.

"Her name is Yelena," Fury supplied, then: "Are you sure?"

Tasha's smile became more genuine, her face more open. "While I am likely to kill Alexei, there is no question that I would kill one of the pop boys, and I do not expect the Ambassador would find me a suitable candidate for his protection." She shook herself as if throwing off the last of her ghosts and continued:

"Alexei and I are both different people now. We are adults, professionals, and I will have Clint as backup to make sure I am on my best behavior."

"Hey, you're supposed to be the responsible one, not me," Clint protested, giving her hands a little shake this time. "That's why Fury poached you from IAB in the first place."

That earned him a private small smile from Tasha, a near silent sigh of relief from Phil, and a scowl from Fury. So, back to normal.

They all had minefields in their pasts that produced triggers and traumas in the now. Clint certainly had his own, things he'd told Phil and some not even him. Over the last year Thor, Bruce and Steve had had some of theirs brought to light in the worst, very public of ways. As Tasha had trouble sharing even her good memories, that she'd kept a husband secret didn't phase Clint (nor did finding out Fury and Phil had known), nor would any other of her secrets stop him from having her back. He hoped she knew at least that much about him in return, as well as that the rest of the guys would be just as supportive once they were read into the assignment.

Well, except for whomever got the Bieber and Russian singer detail.

"Steve and Bruce would be best, I think, for dealing with the Ambassador and his daughter," Tasha offered as she finally twisted her hands completely free from Clint's although she then reached back down to help him off the floor as she'd dumped him on his ass.

"That leaves Stark and Blake overseeing the singers." Fury sounded skeptical, but Clint was sure he saw something more in his eye that was a lot more like amusement, no doubt on Tony's behalf. That was going to be primadonna versus primadonna in a biggest ego takes all cage match.

"Well, Tony does  argue that he is best able to deal with celebrity involved cases," Phil reminded them with a perfectly straight face belied by his own glimmer of unbounded glee to be able to hoist their 'Hollywood' detective by his own petard.

"Actually, between Tony's regular involvement in the charity foundation, and Thor having come from Interpol not so long ago that he still doesn't get overwhelmed or confused by certain American … idiosyncrasies, I cannot imagine anyone else the two boys might actually listen to, yourself excluded, Phil," Tasha gave support to her suggestion.  "I'm not sure they wouldn't just disregard Steve, at least the first time he ordered them to do something for their own protection, or that Bruce would be able to contain his anger when they invariably go against the rules. I don't expect either boy would respect my commands either because of my gender – or they'd be too distracted by it – and Clint would just go along with their shenanigans – "

"Hey –"

"I imagine you're right," Fury agreed. "We'll go with that, with Phil coordinating and keeping track of everyone. Jasper's squad will have lead on whatever else comes up." He had a fully satisfied expression on his face as he visibly relaxed and sat back in his chair like any good evil overlord would do after not being disappointed by his (favorite) minions. Complete with steepled hands that he then rested his chin upon. "Surprisingly, One PP has also given us leave to call in some reinforcements, from outside the precinct, if we need to, so I'll read Captain Hill in on the situation and have her place some of her people on standby. Limited overtime has also been authorized, but if you go overboard, it's not going to be my ass down at One PP getting grilled about justifications. Clear?"

As clear as it was also a dismissal. Clint rose and gave Nick a half-assed salute before offering that arm for Tasha's use as she also gained her feet.

"Don't let this one get fucked up," he heard Fury tell Phil as a parting shot. "That being said, if shit is going to happen, better it spill over onto the Russians or back onto State instead of any of our people."

*****

Clint could hear Tony while he and Tasha were still down the hall from the squad room. They were returning from a quick check over at the University to get an idea of what was going to be expected when Shostakov gave his lecture. While Tony' words were indistinct, his emotions were not, with it all becoming clear as Tasha opened the door.  The others of the A-Squad, sans Phil, hovered around Tony's desk and those of Jasper's B-Squad on duty had stuck their heads around the bend of the room to watch. When Steve caught sight of their arrival, he gave Thor a little signal that he might take a step to the side so they, too, could take in the cause of Tony's histrionics.

Gossip, good or bad, always spread quickly around a precinct, but it looked like the immediate reaction to the news of Tony's upcoming babysitting duty for Justin Bieber was unprecedented and extensive. Clint spotted what looked to be a battery-powered toothbrush vibrating from where it lay atop a set of pillow cases that had been conscripted into being computer doilies, one that sang, if the tinny cacophony eking out from under Tony's vocalized horror could be called that. Sitting next to the toothbrush and atop the keyboard was a doll, with several different changes of clothes presented alongside, including something in a fishnet. The picture frame that Tony kept on his desk of Pepper had been replaced with a pink frame adorned with hearts and Bieber's name, though no one had gone so far as to replace Pepper's picture with one of the pop star.

All of Tony's notepads, pen caddies and other desk accessories had undergone a Bieber makeover too, while aligned across the top of his monitor was a collection of several Bieber-inspired nail polishes and what looked like a perfume bottle. The monitor's screen saver _had_ been changed, to a slide show of some of the more salacious images of the teen singer shirtless, and more cutout images were stuck to the side of the power saver, either stickers, magnets or, more likely, both. It was really quite impressive that so many Bieber items had been found and procured in three short hours, mostly likely while Tony had disappeared on his lunch break.

The kicker was the towel pinned across the back of Tony's desk chair, something that, along with the two throw pillows tucked into the seat, wouldn't have been amiss in Phil's grandmother's house, save for the fabrics sporting more Bieber faces instead of images of the kittens and flowers Phil's nana collected the one time Clint had gone along on a visit. Tony held a third, heart-shaped pillow, against his chest, as if he couldn't help himself and needed some sort of comfort.

Or needed to hide the rest of it.

Because of that last pillow, it took Clint a moment to pick up that Tony was not wearing the same shirt he'd come in with in the morning, that he appeared to be wearing a very tight t-shirt instead – a girl's t-shirt. A Bieber one, of course, in light lavender that seemed to proclaim the singer's heartfelt love for the wearer in big, flowing letters. Tony's deep blush when Tasha gave him a once over, coupled with the absence of Tony's suit jacket, pretty much explained what had to have happened.

"Nice shirt," she commented, her voice dry and mocking.

"It's not my fault," Tony protested, his voice becoming high pitched. " _Someone_ broke into my locker and stole my shirt and jacket while I was working out. And they'd better be pressed and dry-cleaned by the time they're returned, Barton, or I'll take the three grand out of your fucking hide!" he yelled the last part.

"Hey, dude, it wasn't me," Clint protested. "Nat and I've been gone for the last two hours, out over to Queen's College."

"I don't believe –"

"He's right, Tony," Steve quickly spoke up. "I was there when he told Phil they were leaving."

The little quirk to Steve's lips when Tony tucked his face into his pillow that he might scream out his frustration, told Clint that Steve wasn't just showing support for an unjustly accused teammate. Or that Steve knew it was unjust, not only because of overhearing his and Phil's conversation. Bruce seemed to realize Steve's meaning too; he gave a small shake of his head Steve's direction for his shamelessness, but otherwise didn't give the culprit away.

Clint could well imagine that Darcy down in Dispatch had either been consulted or convinced to help with the shopping; the nail polish seemed like something she'd know where to find.

"I don't give a good goddamn who's to blame, Stark," Fury's voice suddenly barked out from behind Clint and Tasha. "You are not going to your meeting with the Mayor wearing that," he growled. "Someone lend him a damn jacket."

"Here, Tony, you can use mine," Blake from the B-Squad offered, the only one of them beyond Clint who was the nearest to Tony's size, since Thor and Steve had inches and muscles on him, while Bruce, Jasper and Phil had either inches, carried too much extra weight, or both.

"It's polyester!" Tony protested, that somehow being a worse offender than it being tan, while Tony's slacks were gray. "Bruce – _Phil_ – please, looking like I’m wearing my dad's jackets has to be better than looking like I'm a 70's used car salesman."

"Sorry, Tony," Phil told him with no regret as he came in with Fury. "I've still got a meeting with the Ambassador this afternoon at the Consulate. You know how sensitive diplomats are to impropriety."

"Clint, buddy – "

"No way, Stark. You accused me of not only engineering your situation, but of lying. I don't think anyone should lend you a jacket." He turned away and tuned out the additional whining as he booted up his computer to transfer some notes he'd taken at the college. He had no doubt that Steve would eventually relent, maybe not until the last second, but it was no worse than Tony deserved, after he'd sent over a strippergram for Steve's birthday a few weeks earlier during the middle of Steve and Darcy's date. If Tony calmed down long enough to think it through, he might even put together the cause and effect himself.

***********

Clint shifted his hold to carry both bags in one hand while he fished for his keys with the now freed one; hopefully the brief destabilizing moment wouldn't cause something to spill out of its container.  He quickly unlocked the door, happy yet also surprised to see the lights already on, moved through and shoved the door closed with his foot while dropping the keys into the bowl that already contained Phil's, then set the containers on the entrance table so he could take off his coat.

"If I'd thought you'd have the time to come over tonight, especially this early, I would have ordered take-out," Phil's voice greeted him from the down the hall.

"I brought some with me," he called back. "As she was driving both of us crazy with her nerves, I sent Tasha home. Well, I called Bucky to come pick her up," he corrected.

"She has a good reason for nerves," Phil murmured, coming up behind Clint to so they could more properly greet one another.  When they separated, Clint removed his holster and gun and started to hang them on one of the coat rack's other spokes since it was unlikely for Phil to have any other visitors for the evening, but Phil stopped and took them from him to lock up in his gun safe in a silent invitation for Clint to stay the night.

"Are you sure?" Clint asked since he'd basically invited himself over after they'd already determined he wouldn't have time to stop by after spending most of the evening with Natasha picking her brain on Shostakov and Russians in general. "If I'm in the way …" He trailed off, questioning Phil's offer not because he wasn't eager to spend the night, but because he genuinely got concerned sometimes that he might overstay his welcome. That Phil was eventually going to dump him because Clint _wanted_ to spend all the time they had available, together.

On some level, Clint simply feared that Phil didn't love him back just as much he loved Phil, or treasure every minute they spent together, even more now in the months after Phil had nearly died at Loki's hand, as much as Clint did.

"You are never in the way, Clint," Phil offered along with another kiss. "I might still take an hour or two tonight to look at files, but you know the password to my Kindle and have your own books in my cloud if you don't feel like lending a hand. We also still have last week's _Once Upon A Time_ to catch up on, or we could see how long we last in trying to get through SyFy's latest movie fiasco."

One of the first ways they'd realized their relationship was progressing beyond a close friendship was when Clint had started DVRing some of Phil's trashy reality shows and hockey games. Phil in return had started recording Clint's science fiction and baseball games for him, unbeknownst to one another.

"It will also be quicker for you to pick up Natasha in the morning from here, even if she's at James' place, than if you go back to yours."

"Thanks, babe." Clint gathered up the dinner he'd picked up from Mama Leone's and followed Phil into his kitchen.

"Water or juice?" Phil asked as he pulled out plates and utensils.

Clint removed the contents and started unwrapping the cheesy garlic bread, then started dividing up the ziti and veal marsala. "Water, please. If you want wine, go ahead. If somehow we get a call in, I don't mind driving."

Drinking was the one cop cliché Clint had never indulged in; he'd never acquired the taste or habit. His father had been an alcoholic who had managed to kill their mother too in a drunken accident, orphaning Clint and his brother. Because of this, Phil rarely indulged himself any longer, but Clint knew that Phil still appreciated a fine wine or a good beer and he'd never asked nor would he ask anyone to give up drinking, just that he'd prefer they didn't get, or at least drive, drunk.

"I don't mind helping go through the files, but I want to run a check on Shostakov.  Tasha's information on him is fifteen years out of date, not to mention colored by how young she was. Then there's how angry she is now when she thinks about how he took her in."

Phil nodded his agreement of Clint's assessment.

"She was wound as tight as I keep a bow string. God, Phil, I know she's a professional, that she does cool and detached on par with you, but I am not sure she's going to get through this without someone getting hurt. I do not want it to be her," he added as he came up behind Phil to lean in and snake his arms around Phil's waist.

Phil set down the twin bottles next to the plates and turned around. "She's got all of us backing her, and James to make sure she knows she's loved, Clint. Plus it's only for a few days." He set his forehead against Clint's, one of their new intimacies that Clint had offered while Phil had been confined to a hospital bed as a hug would have hurt too much and a kiss stole too much breath.

Clint shook his head without moving it so they could stay connected. "You, of all people, know as well as I do how much trouble any of us can get into in just a single day. Or only a couple of hours," he huffed. "But I suppose there will be Consulate minders with us for most of the time, and that will no doubt make things as uncomfortable for Alexei and his daughter as it will for us." He then turned their closeness into a hug before stepping back and maneuvering to pull out Phil's chair with a flourish. "Do you have any idea how many of us will be going to the airport tomorrow for their arrival?"

Phil took his seat and popped the cap on his water. "The Ambassador and his daughter, plus at least one minder, so Steve and Bruce along with you two. We're not sure whether the State Department is going to send anyone too, nor has the College answered our query yet about whether they're planning on doing so.  Nick figured I should probably tag along too, in case any jurisdictional disputes arise given the number of different players." He took a sip while Clint found his own seat.

"Is that likely?" Clint asked before tasting his first forkful of his ziti.

Phil tried the veal before answering. "It's not supposed to. The Ambassador, apparently requested NYPD's lead on this over State, so even their Consulate is supposed to defer to us. And Tony already managed to sweet talk the Mayor's office to wait until the charity event before _they_ send people in to slobber all over the Russians. Turns out the Mayor's Chief of Staff has his own bielieber in the house, so Tony traded first row tickets for a two day grace period before we have to deal with our own politicians."

Clint grinned. "That's why you guys didn't do anything worse than Bieberbomb his desk," he speculated. "Tony Stark's connections and reputation saves the day. And his own sanity. Forcing him to wear the babydoll t-shirt was a touch of genius. Having Steve be the one to raid the locker was definitely the icing, though? Your persuasion, I presume?"

Phil shrugged in modesty. "My idea overall, but I had only mentioned it in passing to Darcy, never expecting it to be able to be put together in time. Seems like that girl holds a grudge," he said with full admiration.

 

_Second Squad, this is Dispatch. The Regency is still looking for a couple of volunteers to run security for this year's classic film festival. This year's charity is our very own Police Athletic League, and this year's films will include_ The Hustler, Breaking Away, When We Were Kings _and_ Pat and Mike _. Several more Katherine Hepburn classics will be shown for those of you who prefer more cerebral pursuits. Your watch commanders will to cut you a little slack with this, people, and all they are asking for is a two hour shift for tickets to the rest of the event. Glitz, glamor and movie stars, all for a cause near and dear to us._

The streets of New York City were always a chaotic mess, never more so than in the couple of hours before and through the afternoon commute and in no area worse than the roads leading to the JFK airport. Their only saving grace this afternoon came from the lack of any inclement weather (snow was forecast for the end of the week), and because Tony had convinced Fury it wouldn't be inappropriate to use one of the Stark Industries limos along with one of the company's driver. Turgenov and his Consulate escort had been suitably mollified with the suggestion after their expectation of using one of their own vehicles had been shot down due to security and recognition risks; his daughter, Orina, quite excited, not from getting to ride in something that would have been quite commonplace even at her young age, but because, in addition to her pop singer obsession, she apparently also had a thing for American boxing, and once she'd heard Happy Hogan was a Stark employee…  Even now she was attempting to convince her father to steal Hogan away from his position as bodyguard for Pepper Potts to come work for the Consulate.

While the limo did not have diplomatic plates or a handy siren attachment to encourage the other cars to give up the right-of-way, the Stark 12 that was on the license plates still produced some favorable yielding, even by the occasional taxicab. That Happy was quite experienced and well-trained in both defensive and evasive driving wasn't hurting either.

Also fortunate was that Turgenov had deemed Steve and Bruce as acceptable escorts for himself and his daughter, having found  common ground with Steve discussing their mutual love of American baseball and international soccer, while it also turned out the Ambassador was something of a weekend scientist with an interest in radiation effects (since the Ambassador had grown up in an area not that far from Chernobyl), to the point of having read a couple of Bruce's papers on the long term effects of gamma radiation exposure written when Bruce had been Dr. Banner, world renowned, world-class physicist. For the last half hour or so, the two of them had been discussing Japan's decisions after Fukushima, while Steve's overall rapport with children was keeping little Orina entertained when she wasn't begging Happy for more stories from his boxing days.

Orina Turgenov was a very odd, very precocious nine-year-old girl.

That left Clint (and Phil) needing only to worry and deal with a distracted, still too tightly wound Natasha. Not that they were doing so good a job, though her only tells were from how forcefully she clutched the outrageous hat and the purse she'd decided was a necessity this afternoon, and from how vicious her responses were to Clint's occasional poking.

"Ambassador, detectives, we're here," Hogan announced as he turned onto the access road and began maneuvering their vehicle into the appropriate lanes to get to Arrivals for the proper international terminal. "And that's a lot of press vans and police," he added as the car drifted toward the building. "How do you want to play this, Detective Coulson?"

They'd already made arrangements with the Port Authority to have a space coned off for the limo away from the doors leading away from Customs, but that area was where there weren't just reporters looking for a scoop and the cops keeping them in check, but also a small crowd of protestors, complete with signs proclaiming they knew exactly who was arriving and who was meeting him.

"Keep going, on up to departures," Phil instructed, no doubt hoping if they quickly returned to one of the thru traffic lanes, the waiting vultures from either side of the protest would dismiss the vehicles presence as simply what it appeared to be, one of Stark Industries' cars that hadn't been able to get into the proper lane the first go around. A SI pick up or drop off would still garner some curiosity and might prove newsworthy. For all that it appeared as if someone had good intel about the situation, hopefully no one knew about the NYPD's involvement in the first place, or at least not which precinct had been assigned the duty, to suspect Tony as being a part of the welcoming committee.

How someone knew enough about the Ambassador's schedule or Shostakov's itinerary in time to organize agitators was a problem and intel breach for Phil to deconstruct later, along with continuing to work on identifying protestors that might be a bit more than offended ex-pats.

Clint was beginning to think that no matter how difficult this was for Tasha – and therefore him – they'd still gotten the best of the assignments. No Bieber, no Consulate, and no tedious background checks or other research only duties like poor Phil.

"Ambassador, for the safety of you and your daughter, I suggest we rethink the plan of having you meet Dr. Shostakov at Customs. It would be better for you and your escorts to wait in the limo while the rest of us meet and bring the Shostakovs to you."

"You are certain there will be no trouble with your Customs people if I am not there to vouch for my countryman?" Turgenov questioned. "No delays or embarrassing questions?"

Phil shook his head. "A member of our State Department will be on hand to help smooth any wrinkles," he assured the Ambassador.

As they'd learned this morning; for the duration of his stay, the Russians had insisted on Shostakov being granted diplomatic status, with full immunity. Unfortunately, the Governor, the Mayor, and State had agreed despite the NYPD's objections.

Not that they had any evidence that Shostakov might get into trouble in having a stay-out-of-jail card. The objection had simply been a matter of precedent and precaution… of the principle of the matter. And a little of Tasha's paranoia that Fury had made sound convincing to One PP.

"What about being met by strangers?" the Ambassador continued to protest, but seeming more pro forma about it than actually concerned. "Alexei will not recognize any of you."

"He and I are acquainted, Ambassador," Tasha said, her sense of duty or loyalty to Fury apparently greater than her reluctance over being dragged into the whole mess. "From before I left Russia to become an American citizen."

While the Consulate had vetted the Squad when the assignment had been given to Fury, Clint suspected that Tasha's file did not include everything any current Russian official might find interesting to know.  She said something about her past being scrubbed by her former Russian employers without actually admitting who those employers had been. Her official NYPD file certainly hadn't filled in all the blanks – at least not the file Clint had been given to read over when she'd become his partner.

Clint was curious whether Shostakov would actually recognize Tasha now, after fifteen years, since he barely did from what she'd chosen to wear. In the year and a half she'd been with the 2nd Precinct, Clint thought he'd seen Tasha with her hair up maybe twice, or seen her in a dress and high heeled pumps more than ten times, and all but one of those when she'd either been in court, or while off-duty and prepping for a date with Bucky. Slacks and flats were definitely a more practical outfit for the kind of crime scenes she and Clint investigated. She'd never seemed the kind of woman who needed fancy hairstyles, more than basic make-up or other fripperies to feel attractive (or to be the stunning beauty she was just _naturel_ ).

Today, though, they had all put on their court clothes; a slightly better cut suit, silk ties and dress coats instead of Clint being able to have his leather jacket. Even Hogan was in a suit (not a chauffeur's uniform), and Bruce's didn't look like it had been bought off the rack. Having a primadonna like Tony Stark as part of the squad had helped in that regard, serving as a consultant to Bruce and Steve and providing the number for his own tailor, then making it a mini competition over who looked the best. (Thor had won; he would have needed a custom-fit suit regardless due to his height and muscles, but he also wore it like royalty, like he'd been the one born to it.)

Natasha, however, had taken her own appearance a step further than just looking suitable for court.

To begin with, her hair had been pulled up into a stylish, tight roll up the back of her head. The dress she'd chosen was day appropriate, but also definitely designer and looking as if it had been made as a one off for her, no doubt costing an amount even Tony might have hesitated for a second or two before purchasing something similar for Pepper. The shoes were Louboutins (something Clint knew only because of the red soles and Pepper's fetish for them and Manolo Blahniks – he might be gay, but not _that_ gay), though a more practical three plus inches than the typical near to five. As Hogan brought them up to Departures, she also took the hat she'd been clutching to set it properly, then dragged out a pair of sunglasses bigger than her face from the purse (which held her service weapon, though Clint had no doubt she was also wearing a back-up something in an inner thigh holster, as Tasha never went anywhere unarmed. Ever).

Frankly, she looked a little like a red-headed Audrey Hepburn from the opening of Breakfast at Tiffany's, except her little black dress was actually dove gray. Her belt, hat, purse and shoes were black, though, with silver accents.

Clint should pass muster as her bodyguard, Phil maybe a business associate; most jaded New Yorkers with business in the airport would simply ignoring all three of them, at least after the fervor of the tourists who would no doubt think Tasha was some Hollywood star or model Stark had been entertaining over the last few days (no one in the press seemed to believe Tony truly was engaged – and faithful – to Pepper), should they put together the limo's arrival and Tasha's entrance.

"Once State gets Dr. Shostakov through customs, we will bring him and his daughter upstairs and out to the car. I'll instruct one of the uniformed police officers to pick up their bags and bring them out to our precinct, where we'll then get them transferred to Stark Tower if Dr. Shostakov agrees to that arrangement, or wherever else is chosen," Phil continued with orders couched as suggestions for the Ambassador's benefit.

Housing Dr. Shostakov and his daughter in one of the empty apartments under Tony's penthouse located on the Upper East Side, along with also extending such an offer to at least the Russian pop singer (if not also Justin Bieber) had been another of Tony's well thought out ideas; running security in a building that already had a better system installed than the White House, plus a nearly-autonomous AI to play constant chaperone, had seemed a better option than trying to secure a hotel or try and do their jobs while in a foreign Consulate. The Ambassador had certainly signed off on the suggestion, though he declined such a temporary apartment himself, citing how keyed up his daughter was already with just the news that she'd been meeting two of her idols during a dinner before the concert, over what might happen if she knew she just had to knock on doors on the same floor to gain access to them. Getting her to sleep, at all, in the next seventy-two hours would have proven impossible, he'd told them, instead of simply being difficult now.

(It was turning out that Ambassador Turgenov wasn't quite the dick Clint had expected given his disregard to how many people he'd be upsetting with his celebration. He was still a politician, but so far he'd proven surprisingly personable, yet not in the typical glad hand way.)

Phil wasn't finished. "We'll use Detective Romanov's entrance into the terminal as a distraction that allows me to make contact with our State Department liaison. Then, once they have the opportunity, she and Detective Barton should be able to slip away and do something to alter their appearances enough that they can join us down in Customs. Detective Romanov can then alert Dr. Shostakov that we are his escort. Worst case, Detective Romanov can play a Hollywood diva again if it looks like too many people around are too interested in Dr. Shostakov's movements. We would again split up, with Detective Barton running the necessary interference for Detective Romanov, while I get Dr. Shostakov upstairs and out to the car."

"If something like that is necessary, I am concerned that only one of you might not be enough to protect Alexei and Yelena," the Ambassador fretted. "If the protestors get inside and get sight of him, they could overwhelm your local police and Yelena may be separated as you cannot be watching two people at once, Detective Coulson. No, I think we must –"

"Ambassador, how about I go along with Detective Coulson?" Steve offered. "Between Podpolkóvnik Usatov, Bruce and Mr. Hogan, you and Orina will still be well protected staying here in the car, and I can keep track of Yelena without Detective Coulson having to split his focus for any reason."

The combination of Steve's earnest offer as well as Orina's enthusiasm over the opportunity to change places with Usatov so that she could sit next to Hogan directly to further grill him on his past career, seemed to do the trick.

"It has already been months, I suppose I can wait a few more minutes for the opportunity to see my good friend," the Ambassador agreed. "It will be as you say and I must admit that Detective Romanova makes a marvelously beautiful distraction."

Clint could see her bristle with his treatment of her name; she'd purposely chosen to ignore Russian naming conventions by dropping any patronymic completely and ignoring the 'proper' genderform when she'd been granted her American citizenship. She was Natasha Romanov, not Romanova. (Sometimes Clint wondered if Natasha had been her birth name, or something she'd chosen for herself upon leaving Russia.)

Still, she made no acknowledgment of the patronizing action by the Ambassador, nor showed any of her pique other than that the shove she gave Clint to exit the car that he might help her out, hadn't been so light. And pretty damn close to his kidney, though Clint's kept his own reaction to a warning squeeze of her hand as he played the escort, tight enough to make her wince – tight enough to get her to take stock of her emotions before they got further out of control. Phil and Steve quickly followed, Steve getting to one of the uniforms directing traffic before Phil did to make arrangements for the limo to stay stationary up here for the next hour or so.

Once people could really see her, Tasha did cause a stir. She seemed to be enjoying the attention and, if asked, even Clint would have admitted being able to glower at people trying to come closer toward her to snap a picture or, worse, talk to her was a nice change from always having to be the concerned detective when dealing with civilians. No one paid attention to Phil, or even Steve, as Tasha strode toward the check-in counters and they turned instead to take one of the elevators down to baggage return and Customs. Clint saw Phil whip out his phone and start to send a text before the doors closed, most likely messaging the State contact that they were on site.

With approximately ten minutes to kill before the passengers of Shostakov's flight landed, and however else longer it would take them to make their way to Customs, Clint steered Tasha toward one of the first class lounges, a quick flash of his badge gaining them entrance. Once inside, they split to the restrooms and a few minutes later it wasn't an Audrey Hepburn model that stepped back out, but someone more like an Emma Watson.

She'd not only let down her hair and lost the makeup, hat and sunglasses (no doubt tucked back into the purse now converted into a backpack that could have doubled for holding a small child) but had exchanged her designer dress with a flowing, sapphire blue tunic that draped artfully to her knees, still using her previous belt and wearing the same patterned black stockings, but now in ballet flats instead of Lauboutins.

Clint had simply taken off his jacket, loosened his tie, and rolled up his sleeves in the picture of a stressed businessman. He gave his jacket to Tasha for her bag, then the two headed out of the lounge and over toward the elevators themselves, though Clint waited to take a second one down a level after Tasha disappeared.  Once more Clint discreetly flashed his badge to gain access to the proper side of the security doors, into Customs, where he found Tasha already having taken a seat as if she was a passenger who'd completed their intake process and was now waiting for friends or family to make it through themselves before they'd all head out to cabs or parking.

Clint moved to find his own place to wait, noting that Phil and Steve were standing together with a third guy behind one of the security barriers. Their attention was caught by someone amongst the next influx of passengers, but before Clint could pick out Shostakov himself, Tasha was up and moving purposefully toward the group.

To anyone else, she looked like a friend or perhaps family member greeting those she'd been waiting on, her face open and smiling. She strode forward with absolute confidence, zeroing in on a bear of a man with a teenage daughter at his side and calling out a greeting in Russian that had Clint holding his breath. There was always the chance that Shostakov wouldn't be any happier to see her than she was him, and the last thing they wanted was to create a scene.

Given what little Tasha had passed on about the man she'd mistakenly married when she'd been little more than a child herself, Clint pulled away from the wall and took a few steps closer though without calling attention to himself. He wasn't going to leave his partner in the wind if something was going to get nasty. Shostakov had a few inches on him as well as maybe fifty pounds, and weight that looked like muscle, not fat, so compared to Tasha, Shostakov looked nearly twice her size. There was no animosity on his face, however, when recognition took over his expression. Surprise, yes, but if he was unhappy or angry about being greeted by his ex, he was at least a damn good actor.

Being very good at almost every aspect of her job, Tasha managed the exchange of cheek kisses and a hug that perhaps took a few too many liberties without giving anything away. She also effortlessly maneuvered the Shostakovs toward Phil and the others without drawing attention to them or the fact that she'd edged him out of the line that was forming as more arriving passengers made their way down for their Customs check.

Still maintaining his fiction of not being involved with either threesome, Clint moved close enough to hear Shostakov speaking to his partner in flawless English.

His tone held only good cheer, no trace of hard feelings or guilt in how they'd parted. "My precious little Natalia Alianovna," he cooed at her.  "You are here? For me? For us? I did not know this is where our Masters sent you all those years ago. You look well. So beautiful. Still my special flower."

Clint had to hold himself in check, wanting to take the guy out for his sheer gall, but Tasha had never been someone who needed his protection, or even his offense on her behalf. Still, he was glad to see Steve looking a little murderous – and frustrated – as well.

"No Masters anymore, Alyoshka," Tasha responded with a slyness to her tone that meant she'd just insulted him, though Clint didn't know how.

"Not for me, at least. Coming here was my choice and I made myself a new, wondrous home. But, yes, I am here for you and your daughter. If you would follow me, there is a special line."

Shostakov looked immediately suspicious, and Clint supposed that if they had once had common 'masters', no matter what kind of man Shostakov presented himself as now, he would still have his share of a spy's paranoia too. Looked like it was time for Phil and the guy from the State Department to step forward and make themselves known.

Fortunately, while the State Department had pretty much washed their hands of this entire affair, the guy they sent for this bit knew his job. And how to do it with nearly as much subtlety as Natasha had shown getting Shostakov away from the crowd.

"Welcome to America," the guy said as he stepped away from Phil and forward to offer his hand, careful not to mention Shostakov's name, however, that someone else might make note it. The subsequent handoff of his business card was near flawless despite Clint watching, as was Shostakov's surreptitious glance at it and the subtle relaxation of his shoulders.

"If the three of you would follow me."

Drawing Tasha into the pairing was another smart move. If anyone was tracking Shostakov's arrival, they would be looking for two people, a father and daughter, not two parents and their daughter.  Of course, all of these elaborate games and subterfuges could be a waste of time and overkill, but Clint was firm believer of the better-safe-than-sorry school of thought and despite the implications such a cover might hold for Tasha, it was a pleasure to watch professionals in action. Including Phil and Steve who did their own disappearing act to make their way back upstairs.

Clint lingered down below until Tasha sent him a short text saying 'done', then he, too, headed up to the others and the car that awaited them.

*****

"So, Natalia Alianovna?" Clint couldn't resist after the Shostakov were dropped off at the Consulate with the Ambassador for the evening, and it was just the four of them again, plus Hogan left in the limo.

"Not anymore," she answered with no counter response to the teasing inflection of his tone.

She also didn't seem surprised to be asked, or upset that the secret of her real name was out.

"No matter anyway," she added, turning toward him with a gleam in her eye that didn't bode well for someone.

She gave him a sudden grin. "Natalia was only a name for Alexei to know me by."

Implying it to be just as fake as Natasha. Implying that Clint still didn’t deserve to know. Unless one of those two _was_ her real name, and she was only fucking with him by casting her whole background in doubt.

"I thought the nickname for Alexei was Sasha?" Steve asked amidst the silent war Clint and Tasha were now waging by threatening and haughty looks, respectively.

"Nyet," Natasha answered him lightly, shifting her focus away from Clint and softening her expression, instead of appearing angry at Steve's miss-impression as she would have had Clint asked. Not that she would have meant it. "Sasha is a pet name for Alex. Aleksandr and Alexei are different names," she explained in anticipation of the next question.

"So Alyoshka is a pet name for Alexei?" Phil asked, appearing just as interested as Steve – and Clint in Russian naming conventions.

She made a sound that might have been a giggle from any other woman. "A pejorative form of his name, actually. Had I cared for him, I might have called him Lyoshenka. Instead, I implied he was a mama's boy. Which is not the same as someone being gay in Russia," she abruptly added, eyes going wide in shock and concern that she might have insulted Phil or Clint.

"I know you don't think of us as mama's boys," Clint reassured her without the irony that might have laced his answer had someone else made the same comment. He'd never really known his mother since she'd died when he'd been six. The only female influences in his younger life had been the nuns and mother superiors from the orphanages he and his brother had run away from when he'd been twelve, then the women who'd worked the streets when he'd lived on them. Not exactly mothering types, or the kind of women boys clung to, at least not for any sort of nurturing relationship.

Phil might have been closer to filling the stereotype of a mama's boy, given that many people when they first met him assumed he was an accountant or, if he was lucky, a lawyer or a reporter, a la Clark Kent; someone mild mannered and unassuming. Unassuming was not effeminate however, and as far as Clint knew, Phil had never been bullied by other kids while growing up, or accused of being a faggot. Phil's mother had been a small town mayor when he and his sister had been growing up,  the person in charge of everybody in town and the one responsible for overseeing everything, so it wasn't as if she'd had time to coddle either of her children either.

"Is there a proper Russian nickname for Natasha?" Hogan asked from up front.

From the slight reddening of her cheeks, he'd managed to embarrass her in the asking.

"Natasha is the nickname," she admitted. "It's one of the pet names a younger Natalia might be called. There are other diminutive or affectionate forms, such as Natka, Natalya or Natusik. Tasha is an American nickname, which is why I like it the best," she added, when she noted Clint's growing embarrassment.

He'd been the first to call her Tasha, had put up with being yelled at for it – and hit once or twice – until she had finally given in and started responding to it, so much that most of them called her that now when they weren't on duty. Well, except for Tony, who'd taken his scolding and punches to heart.

"I am American now, which is something that Alexei, or anyone else, cannot take from me."

*****

"My place tonight? I still need to pack a bag for staying at Stark Tower."

Tonight would be their last opportunity to share a bed for the next few days, since Clint doubted Phil would be willing to join him at the apartment Tony had given over to him in the seven-story Stark Tower building. He and Tasha planned to split the watch duty during the night; given that Tony's security was second to none, they probably didn't have to have one of them awake at all times, but neither of them wanted to be the one who said they'd been asleep if something ended up happening.

"Sure," Phil agreed. "I've got more files to review now that we have new faces added from the protestors outside JFK, but it's not like I'm going to get through all of them unless I stay up all night. Fortitude might be commendable, but not when sharp reflexes could prove much more important."

"Yeah, if you're going to sacrifice sleep, it might as well be for something much more worthwhile," Clint had to tease with a waggle to his eyebrows.

Phil's response was simply one of his looks, something part exasperation, part amusement and, fortunately, a whole lot of fondness.

"Will take-out be okay?  I mean, I don't mind cooking, but I'm not sure what's on hand and if I turn on the diner lights, someone is going to come knocking  –"

If it was one of the neighbor kids, Clint wouldn't be willing to turn them away, either, because that would mean their parents had left them alone again, and hungry or needy kids were definitely one of Clint's weaknesses. (If someone was hurt, it went without saying that Clint would open up his home, and that Phil would be right with him rendering whatever aid was necessary.)  He'd worked very hard at getting the locals to trust the cop that had intruded, and he took pride in being someone they felt comfortable coming to. That they also left him alone when it wasn't an emergency, if only his loft lights were on instead of the diner was the consideration he'd earned, in turn.

"How about I text in an order to Pio Pio?"

Clint nodded. "Peruvian sounds great. Are you okay if I just leave my Jeep here at the precinct overnight; and you drive us over? I figured tomorrow when you come back in, I'll take my go bag and bike over to Tony's then hook up with Hogan again to drive to Tasha's then on to the Consulate for Shostakov and his daughter. Tony's offered  the use of any of his cars or drivers during the duration of the protection detail, but I'd feel more comfortable have something I can rely on in case things get weird, something I don't have to worry about whether I screw up the transmission – or the paint job."

"Sounds like a good idea to have something that can get around things like traffic or road blocks – "

"Sidewalks and protestors," Clint had to add, just to get _that look_ again.

"I am not going to bail you out if one of the meter cops busts you for driving on the sidewalk," Phil protested automatically, though they both knew  Phil would absolutely pull strings or bail him out if it came to that. Clint would only do something he could get pulled over for if the situation demanded it; he might (occasionally) be too fearless for Phil's peace of mind, but he was never casually reckless.

While the risks the job entailed were pretty much understood on day one, they both were still navigating the ones that came from trying to manage their relationship at the same time. So far Clint thought they'd done fine in the fourteen months after they'd gotten together as far as not compromising one another. It wasn't as if feelings wouldn't be there if one of them got hurt were they not sleeping together; the rest of the squad had been right there with Clint while Phil had healed, just as they'd all taken turns sitting at Steve's bedside after the mess with Schmidt. But it was a tighter balancing act now, having to consider not just the consequences of failure to one's self but also how those consequences might impact the other person. Surprisingly, it was okay not being responsible to just himself, and having someone worry and care was actually rather nice.

Fortunately, Fury's take on the anti-fraternization rules included expecting his people to act like adults, and he trusted that the job would get done no matter what. Having someone close to share the good and the bad didn't just make them better cops, but better people.

 

_Second Squad, this is Dispatch. It's Monday, which means kids are heading back to school after their three-day weekend. Be cautious around school zones and vigilant against those who are not. Also be on the lookout for school speed limit signs being vandalized. So far, three have been found with ones painted before the fifteen and twenty mile limits. While I don't know of anyone stupid enough to believe that a hundred and twenty is a viable speed on city streets, it's our taxes that will end up paying for the replacements and I, for one, would rather have the collected money spent on fixing potholes or paying our salaries._

After spending the morning trying to guess who amongst the protestors might be a terrorist, along with trying to figure out who had the opportunity to leak itineraries and other information that shouldn't have been made public, Clint had actually been looking forward to getting out of the squad room and out into the city with Shostakov and his daughter, Yelena. More fool he; he'd already scoped out Queen's College for its potential trouble spots, so doing so again and this time with one of the Regents in escort as well as Shostakov, was turning out to be an exercise in torture. He didn't even have Tasha nearby to commiserate with as Yelena had decided walking around an American campus would be boring and had managed to sweet talk her dad into letting her go off with Tasha to get in some shopping and then lunch before meeting back up afterward.

Had there been more than just a few student activists trying to drum up support at one of the quads, Clint wouldn't have been so open to splitting them up, but as the students hadn't actually recognized Shostakov when they'd walked by and just seemed to be making a token protest against the concept of Unity Day, he hadn't been able to come up with any sensible reasons to keep them together that wasn't just pure paranoia.

So far, the only thing this visit was accomplishing was cementing the knowledge that if someone wanted to do something while Shostakov was on campus, there was going to be damn little he or anyone else would be able to do about it. In principle, Clint was all for people exercising their first amendment rights and their growing political conscience and was a firm believer in the fourth amendment despite belonging to a body that sometimes violated it, but he could understand how certain situations could encourage otherwise freedom and democracy loving people to just say fuck the constitution.

While students and protests went hand in hand together like peanut butter and jelly and asking the kids to forego any assembling (or threatening them with arrests) would actually call more students to become protestors, not to mention encourage non-students to rally here too, trying to secure such an open environment was mostly impossible. It wasn't like Shostakov was another Ahmadinejad to command extraordinary measures. No one was going to put up with closing down the campus prior to or during the lecture, plus barring non-students from attending was working against the whole purpose of the event in educating the public in the first place. Requiring all attendees to register and have tickets wouldn't prevent people from redistributing said tickets to someone else, unless you also required IDs to be presented when registering as well as when people arrived. Not exactly making the event inclusive there, nor did anyone have the manpower to manage all of that anyway.

Best case in that kind of scenario would be those who felt disenfranchised would gather in their own protests, thus doubling the need for security and further rules and so on, in a vicious cycle of controls and dissents. Obviously they were going to need more than a couple of detectives and a handful of uniformed officers to handle crowd control yet, even then, Clint couldn't see how they'd be able to stop a determined detractor unless they simply stumbled across someone with a gun, a bomb, or some other damn thing that would be useful to disrupt the talk or kill an unpopular spokesman.

No, what they really needed was for this Regent to wise up and see the same concerns himself, to decide that the college's liability as host made it untenable and he called the damn thing off.  If not that, then at least insist that the location of the lecture be moved to some venue where security concerns could be more properly addressed and managed, like Javits or even Madison Square Garden.

Instead, he got a phone call from Tasha that proved that his last four hours of futility and growing stress were nothing compared to her last four minutes.

"Barton," he answered, stopping at the bottom of the stairs while gesturing for Shostakov and Regent Miles to continuing climbing. He held his position only long enough that they couldn't easily overhear without making their intention to do so obvious, then started up the stairs himself. They had been on their way to lunch, being invited to the faculty-only cafeteria here in the Admin building instead of having to mingle in with students who might eventually recognize Shostakov, or having to go offsite; Tasha and Yelena currently were making use of Hogan and one of Stark's limos, so that would have meant finding a cab.

"I lost her," Tasha told him, no greeting, no preamble, no excuses.

 She sounded angry, but also something more. Winded?

Clint was careful not to stop his climb again, not to show anything when the other two looked back to see if he was going to hold them up very long.

"Where are you?" he asked Tasha in return, no names, no grimaces, nothing to attract attention or give away anything, unless Shostakov could read lips as well as walk up while also walking backwards.

"An alley south of Salute over in Forest Hills, on 108th. We were walking back to where Hogan was waiting. I heard sounds of an altercation that I was prepared to ignore until the gunshot. Yelena followed me despite my instructions for her to head into the boutique we'd just passed and wait until I returned. It took me a minute or so to subdue the gunman and see to the victim, and when I turned to ask Yelena to call it in to the precinct for me, she had disappeared. I do not know if she ran off in panic from the violence, if she simply took advantage of the situation and left voluntarily because she felt stifled or if she was taken."

Yeah, Yelena had made it pretty clear that, being sixteen, she wasn't happy with any form of a babysitter, even people who were there for her own protection. She'd seemed particularly hostile toward Tasha's presence, most likely because of the way her father had fawned over the stranger who'd turned out to be an ex instead.

"Are you hurt?" Because Clint couldn't imagine a situation where Natasha would have lost track of her charge even if she was having to take down a mugger and comfort a victim, not unless she had something further to distract her, like an injury that needed seeing to.

Tasha snorted, something Clint found endearing for precisely its inelegance, especially compared to the rest of her comportment and movements. He'd always considered himself pretty comfortable in his own body (he worked hard to keep up with most of the fitness regime he'd adopted back when he'd managed to qualify for the Olympic Archery team) as well as figured he could be justifiably proud in his accomplishments given how long he'd been an orphan and street kid. It wasn't so much that Tasha made him feel his age (though, yes, she did) or his lack in certain skills or mannerisms, as she simply made him often feel clumsy and rough, whether he was trying to back her up physically or with conversation.

"Please. One mugger with a gun he barely knew which way to point was no threat. A distraction, on the other hand… " She trailed off, her anger turning inward by her next words. "Someone else called 911 and I am waiting for a bus with two uniform officers from the One O Two, so I sent Hogan back to you. The gunman will require being seen to at a hospital before I can interrogate him to see if he was part of an elaborate plot or simply a criminal with inopportune timing."

Clint took a deep breath and only managed not to close his eyes under the enormity of the clusterfuck before them even as he once more signaled for Shostakov and Mills to go on into the cafeteria now that they had arrived at the proper place. He could no more keep this information from Shostakov than Tasha could avoid calling it in. And that didn’t even take into consideration that Xavier ran the detectives at the One O Two. Logan was going to laugh his ass off when he heard about it, and Summers was going to be a huge pain in the ass when he tried to take the lead on Tasha's bust.

"If you're within the One O Two, you'll probably end up at New York Hospital Queens. We can be there in ten or fifteen minutes. Do you want me to call it in to Fury?"

"I don't suppose we can wait and just let Captain Xavier tell him?" she asked, not serious, of course, but still sounding wistful. "I'll call, Clint. It was my fuck up, it's my responsibility."

"Hey, we're partners, partner," he reminded her, not wanting her to beat herself up over something he wouldn't have handled any differently from the sound of it. Once a gun got involved, so would most any cop, no matter their primary responsibility.

"'All for one' and everything, remember?" he added. "As the senior partner, it was my call whether we split up or not, so if there's any blame, we share in it."

"Lyubimyy durak. "

Clint had to smile. He'd been called fool often enough to know the Russian; beloved fool was newer , sweeter and being called it in this instance was her way of saying thank you.

"Be good and play nice with your brothers in blue," he retorted back just as she started to hang up. Bruce might have the worst temper of the group of them, but Tasha certainly had the least patience when it came to working with anyone outside her own precinct. While Clint suspected some of it was a learned eccentricity from her time with IAB, he also thought it was really more fundamental than that; Natasha Romanov did not trust anyone until they proved her regard or respect for them was deserved.

If that peculiarity was a Russian trait – a spy trait – and Shostakov felt much the same, even without a father's concern entering into it the next few minutes were not going to go well.

Entering into the cafeteria, he found Shostakov looking rather bemused at the line of food choices and the servers behind the glass. He seemed to be waiting for Clint, or perhaps he was waiting to see everything that Mills was selecting before choosing for himself.  When Clint didn't move immediately to join them, Shostakov gave a quick glance toward an oblivious Mills before stepping back, then headed to join Clint at the uninhabited corner of the room he'd chosen as an appropriate place to break the news about Tasha and Yelena.

"What is it?" Shostakov asked, only seeming to notice he was still holding his tray when he gestured some sort of encouragement for Clint to speak up and Clint had to take a further step back to avoid being hit by it.

Not really wanting Shostakov to be armed with anything when being told about his daughter, Clint then extended his hand to relieve the other man of the impediment to his demonstrative nature of talking, smiling inwardly when Shostakov let go of the tray without a thought.

"Dr. Shostakov, I am sorry to have to say, but your daughter disregarded Detective Romanov's instructions and has disappeared." Clint wasn't about to offer Tasha up for blame when Yelena had gone against Tasha's orders in the first place. "We do not know if she skipped out on purpose, or was taken –"

"She would never – "

Clint let Shostakov take the first shot, a part of him amused that he'd called Shostakov's reaction dead on. It wasn't quite as amusing to note with the fist he blocked against his forearm, that despite having become an academic, Shostakov also prided himself on maintaining his fitness; that his first assessment had been correct in that Shostakov had not let himself go to seed. He still figured he could take the man down, but not cleanly and not without doing some damage as well as maybe taking some himself. Which would only add to the scope of the disaster once everything got back to the Ambassador and the State Department. And Captain Fury.

Phil.

"I knew she was predatel!" Shostakov roared as he swung again.

Clint blocked the follow-up as well, beginning to regret he'd voluntarily moved this toward a corner of the room since in doing so, he'd given himself very little room to maneuver.  He also couldn't see the rest of the room's occupants from here, though he did hear Mills dissuading someone from getting involved along with someone else screaming in their phone for campus security.

Fuck.

"She is as she was then, sukka , a whore and – "

"Yeah, no, you don't get to say that about her," Clint growled and shoved just a little against Shostakov's chest to show he wasn't any more intimidated than he was amused by the crap Shostakov was spouting. He really wanted to pop the bastard one. Or twelve. This was still a distraught father, though, who had a valid reason for his grief and anger despite choosing the wrong targets.

"What we need to deal with now is what happened to your daughter," Clint then tried, hoping to redirect Shostakov from his anger despite knowing he wasn't going to get through to him when he had to block not just a swing, but a kick.

"This is just taking time away from figuring out how we are going to find Yelena, Alexei!"

"Do not say her name, you American bastard! You – I should – I will show – "

Shostakov suddenly grabbed up both the tray Clint had set aside on one of the vacant tables, and an empty glass that had been left behind by the former occupant. Clint could only stand his ground, not sure he could pull the tray free but certain trying to do so would simply leave him open to take a hit from the glass. He still raised his right hand as if he was going to grab at it, then pushed instead, leading with his elbow and putting his entire forearm and palm into it. Powered by Shostakov's rage, the tray broke against his block. The force snapped Clint's wrist back far enough that something inside broke, along with the rest of Clint's temper.

Ignoring the flare of pain, Clint thrust his right hand cross body, passing it under Shostakov's hand still holding the glass. Once more he brought up his elbow. This time it was Shostakov's arm being raised instead of a tray, giving Clint the opportunity to duck so that the glass passed over his head, his shortness for once working in his favor. Twisting then at the waist, he delivered an uppercut with his left fist – his dominant hand – as he straightened, putting his whole body behind the blow that smashed into Shastakov's chin.

He hoped to really push Shostakov back this time, to maybe unbalance the other man and give himself time to pull his gun if just fighting back wasn't enough, but it turned out that Shostakov had a glass jaw and went down with the one blow, unconscious.

"Detective Barton, what hap -- are you okay?" Mills sounded shocked as well as nervous. "Should I…"

Should he what, since the regent just trailed off, but Clint nodded and said yes to Mills' first question and ignored the second.

"I'm fine."

He wasn't, not exactly, going by the pain and tingling radiating around his wrist, but he was okay enough.

"You're bleeding. Did… did Dr. Shostakov attack you?" Mills had a stack of napkins in his hand as he approached, that he thrust out.

Clint took them, not exactly sure what was bleeding, but then decided it had to be what he'd simply thought water splashed across his forehead from Shostakov's glass. There had certainly been enough shredded fiberglass from the tray to have cut skin, and enough adrenalin going through his body that he wouldn't have noticed.

"It was a misunderstanding," Clint temporized as he knelt down to make sure Shostakov hadn't also hit his head on a table or something as he'd fallen. 

"Should we call for an ambulance?"

Good question, but even as he thought it, Shostakov started to twitch, then went immediately still when Clint's fingers pressed against his neck to check his pulse. A spy's trick, not giving away that he'd awakened, except Shostakov was a little too long from the game and had stopped himself too late.

"He's coming around now, and our driver is on the way back so we'll take care of it unless Dr. Shostakov prefers the ambulance."

Shostakov groaned and shook his head, groaning again from the movement this time. "You have a mighty arm for being such a small man," he told Clint as he slowly opened his eyes. "Perhaps you are a suitable match for my Natochka, and the right man to be finding my Lena."

Back to an endearment for Tasha despite having just called her a whore and suddenly all smiles for Clint after doing his damnedest to hurt if not kill him.

Terrific. Shostakov was one of those, deciding someone had earned his respect because they could hold their own in a fight. Clint supposed he should take the boon as it was given; anything that had Shostakov cooperating would only be for the good, both in finding his daughter and in getting through the rest of the week.

Shostakov held up his hands toward Mills and Clint, giving them little choice but to help the guy up. When he then stumbled in dizziness, Mills pretty much dumped him on Clint, but Mills then turned in reaction to the abrupt arrival of the campus security who slammed through the doors, so Clint held his tongue and held onto Shostakov.

"Stand down," Mills told the four people who took up offensive positions, one woman and three men. "Thank you for your prompt response, but it has turned out your presence is not necessary. This gentleman is a police detective and everything has been resolved."

Clint found himself looking at Mills with a little more friendliness for that; he could have very easily left it for Clint to explain and deal with, making an awkward situation much worse.

It was going to be bad enough having to explain and deal with it with Phil and Fury.

********

Tasha stood leaning against the wall he walked out of the treatment room. She looked mussed and bruised, and had received her own stitches for a cut across her hairline (he'd gotten two for his cut near his cheekbone, it looked like she had at least eight), but otherwise looked fine, if still pissed. And impatient.

"Phil's working things out with Summers and his partner," she told him, knowing him well enough now to figure that would be his first question once he'd assured himself that she was okay.  "You okay?" came her question.

Clint shrugged and held up the hand that now sported a soft, purple cast. "Minor break that they don't think will need surgery. I wear this and be really careful until the swelling goes down, then I'll come back for a real cast, maybe in a week or so.  Your friend Alexei didn't realize I was a lefty."

Tasha scowled at the friend remark, but then nodded and started them out toward the ER waiting room. "I stopped by to check on him. They're going to keep him for a few more hours for another set of scans to make sure there's no bleeding on the brain or anything from where he hit the ground.  He's developing a spectacular bruise. I wish I'd been there to see you deliver it."

"I'm just lucky he's not suing me for assault, or trying to get me fired."

She gave him a wolfish, smug grin. "Oh, no, nothing like that, Clint. You're his new best friend," she crowed. "He's still the reigning boxing champion at his club and you really impressed him by being able to take him down."

"He's got a fucking glass jaw. How isn't everyone taking him down?"

She shrugged. "If he's anything like he was, he's quick to anger and relies quite a bit on intimidation as well as dirty tricks. Once upon a time, those were very useful though I imagine that now he's relying as much on his former reputation to keep his status."

Quick to anger and dirty tricks sounded about right. Still, were Clint a father in the same situation, he couldn’t say he wouldn't have done much the same. And he wouldn't have wanted to be friends with someone who been able to stop him.

"Do we have anything new on Yelena? Calls to the Consulate or a demand of ransom?"

Once more Tasha's expression clouded and took on a cast of self-directed anger. "Nothing so far. Ambassador Turgenov has been notified of what's happened, but apparently Alexei also demanded to speak to him and insist that we are still in charge of both his protection detail and the investigation into finding his daughter. That's part of what Phil's out there negotiating. Whether I'm going to be allowed in on the interrogation of the perp who's probably just now coming out of surgery for a broken arm and a busted nose. The bastard was insisting that I be the one who got arrested and Summers looked like he wanted to agree when he showed up." She gave a shrug and let her body loosen from the tension she'd been holding.

"It was more than just precinct rivalry," she explained. "Turns out that Summers went to the Academy with Nate Summers – no relation – out of the fifteenth. I might have come close to putting Nate into jail during an IAB investigation a few years back. In the end it turned out he'd been framed by one of the other detectives in his department, which I also uncovered. Apparently Scott Summers holds a grudge. Nate, however sends me flowers on the anniversary of the day I cleared him."

That had Clint smiling. No one liked the folks in the rat squad, especially any officer who'd been under investigation – or that officer's friends. He'd have to look this Nate guy up. See what made him so different from the rest. And maybe thank him for the consideration he'd shown for Clint's partner.

It wasn't IAB fallout they had to deal with next, however, not really, even with Summers. Frankly, even the jurisdictional spat was minor compared to losing a foreign diplomat's daughter. And putting that diplomat into the hospital (even if he had deserved it). Although they seemed to be off the hook with the Russians and even State, Clint knew he and Natasha were not off the hook with Fury or Phil.

That Phil was still talking with Summers had Clint pondering just how much trouble they might be into, but even with his back to them, Phil seemed to sense their arrival and was turning away from Summers with a neutral gesture. Summers looked surprised at first; he obviously hadn't spotted them and warned Phil, but at least he also didn't look any angrier than his normal pinched off expression. Steve sometimes came off as having a stick up his but when it came to rules or procedures, but Steve also knew that things were rarely that cut and dry. Scott Summers came across as a full-time company man, an evangelist, really, like a reformed smoker now insisting everyone else became one too. 

Logan had once hinted that Clint and Summers had more in common than they'd believe, sticking up for a squadmate even when he didn't always get along with Summers himself, in a bid to convince Clint and Phil that Xavier's golden boy did have some hidden depths and wasn't just a political animal rising through the ranks because of knowing how to deal with the right people. Clint still wasn't sure that Summers didn't play the political game for his own, personal benefit (but it wasn't like Tony didn't do the same thing himself, just with a bit more flare, and Clint liked him well enough), but he did think he recognized some similarities outside of that. That maybe Scott Summers was also a man who'd lead a wild or at least unconventional life once upon a time. Clint had eventually found his own moral compass, but maybe Summers hadn't had people like Sister Rosario and Amanda Cerra before he'd come to the NYPD to find his own version of Nick Fury or Phil Coulson, so he felt rigid control and a strict interpretation of the rules were the only ways not to slip and revert.

If a man like James Logan could work with the prick full time, Clint figured he could manage it for a few hours if it became necessary.

Natasha held Clint in place so Phil could come to them, away from the other cops or anyone else in the room. He could see Phil eyes narrow in approach, not from anger but concern, knowing how he and Tasha looked. As if they'd both been involved in some kind of altercation. Tasha would look the worst, dirt and other smudges staining not only her blouse and a knee of her slacks, but also her face although someone had cleaned up the worst of that along with the blood, when they'd stitched up the cut at her hairline. The skin around that cut was already purpling and looked as if the bruise would end up extending down toward her cheekbone. Clint hadn't asked how she'd earned it, but looking at it himself, he decided it came from something hard and sharp, like the corner of a trash bin and not someone's fist or gun. No wonder the guy was in surgery for multiple broken bones.

Most of Clint's bruising would be on his arms from blocking most of Shostakov's blows, though he really didn't expect too much to show up once he stripped down. Then the cut across his cheek, but that shouldn't really bruise either, and the cast would cover any on his hand, as well as the swelling that still had his fingers feeling fat and clumsy. He'd been given a muscle relaxant when he'd first gone in for x-rays, and some Tylenol for pain relief, which really wasn't cutting it, but he wouldn't have taken anything stronger even if it had been offered; maybe tonight when he went off duty, except that he was on a protection detail and, technically, would be off duty until sometime after the fourth.

Man, that was going to suck.

"I'll assume the other guys look worse?" Phil asked as if he hadn't first sucked in a breath then given a sigh of relief when the two of them met him with bright smiles for the others around, and subtle reassurances for just between the three of them.

"We're ready to go and they aren't," Tasha replied, an answer enough. 

Phil nodded as if he expected nothing else.  He reached out carefully to run a finger above her cut, just tracing it with no touching.

"It's fine, Phil. I'm fine," she said with both reassurance and impatience; she didn't really even like it when James fussed over her.

He nodded and after one last look to make sure she was telling the truth, then turned expectantly toward Clint. The entire squad had learned within weeks of coming to work for Nick, that Phil did not tolerate lying about or even downplaying injuries. Not when other people counted on their abilities to do their job, partners and civilians alike.

Clint held up his arm. "Busted wrist. Shouldn't even slow me down."

Surprisingly, Phil took Clint's hand into his and made a point of manipulating his fingers. He was showing the only kind of concern he could get away with as a friend and superior, but it still caught Clint off guard enough that it took him a few seconds and an elbow from Tasha to stop tensing up in fear of how it might be interpreted by someone like Summers who was in a position to hurt them if he read something more into it.

"Steve and Bruce are going to take over the watch on Shostakov once he's released –"

"Sir, we can still –"

"Just until tomorrow morning, Natasha. You aren't getting pulled from this, though I can't promise you that Nick won't put you out walking a beat for a few weeks after the Russians go home." He managed an expression of stern compassion, coupled with a matter-of-factness in his tone that said he was upset about what had happened, but that he probably wasn't upset with them.

Shit did happen despite the best of intentions or doing everything right and, sure, maybe those weren't exactly the truth in this case, but they also hadn't actually done things wrong. Maybe if they hadn't split up with their charges, Yelena wouldn't be missing, but it was just as likely that both Yelena and her father could have been taken if that's really what had happened, had they stayed together.

"Summers is lending us a couple of patrol officers to keep watch while Shostakov is here in the hospital," Phil continued, holding onto Clint's hand for just a few seconds to long before letting go and taking a step back. "He and his partner plan to be the ones to pick him up at discharge and take him over to the Stark apartment. In the meantime, he has agreed to let you question your suspect, Natasha, but he's going to be there right beside you and his precinct will handle the booking."

Tasha frowned, of course, though once she thought it through she'd probably agree that that was actually the best scenario to come out of this: access to the necessary information along with the chance to make sure the information was useful, but not having to deal with the paperwork or prosecution if it came to that.

"What about me?" Clint asked.

"I'm heading over the crime scene to meet with Logan and help canvas the area for witnesses and pull any security footage from the area. If you're really feeling up to it, you can join me, or you can have Mr. Hogan drive you back the precinct. We've put in a request with the Consulate to get access to Ms. Shostakov's phone information and with Judge Walters to get a warrant to access its GPS if that comes through. I imagine Tony will interpret things generously and also pull any calls made to or from it and I'm sure he'd appreciate the help going through them."

There was really no choice. A chance to work with Phil and ply Logan for stories about what goes on during Fury's poker games versus listening to Tony go on about his computer and investigative prowess (not to mention listening in on a sixteen year old's conversations)?

"I'd love to interview witnesses."

***************

They got lucky.  After nearly an hour of interviewing shop owners, neighbors and passersby, Logan found someone who'd not only seen Natasha and Yelena walking away from Salute, but had actually started filming the two when the first scream had sounded, thinking they might capture some interesting video to sell later to the local news. He'd followed behind the two as Tasha moved first toward the alley, then Yelena following after a quick look around, the cameraman not actually breeching the alleyway to get too close – or doing anything to help – but his greed and cowardice did mean they'd gotten a clean look at Yelena watching until she was certain Tasha was so involved in taking down the perp that Yelena could slip away on her own, under no coercion and not in the company of anyone at all. Although Yelena quickly moved out of frame, they had enough video of her to see that she looked as if she'd had a purposeful destination in mind even though she'd never been to America before this trip, and hadn’t been out of her father's sight until this morning.

Clint was the first to point out what her actions looked like, that the attack had been a set-up from the start in order for her to get away from Natasha, and that he'd bet any money that she'd snuck away to see someone her father disapproved of, girl or boy, which meant that not only did there have to be some sort of trail set up either by phone or email, but at some point Yelena had to have been in contact with the guy Tasha was waiting to interrogate. Passing on that information had given Tasha the kind of leverage she'd needed to get the guy to sing, well that and the undoubted threat of what else might get broken.

The perp's quick confession after that had led them here, to a no-tell motel, complete with mildew-stained walls, threadbare carpet, and truly unfortunate smells permeating all around them. Clint followed both Phil and Logan, with a few unis then behind him as further backup. Phil held the key that the front desk manager had easily coughed up when Logan had demanded it, with no protests or demands of his own for a warrant. Allegedly they were about to confront the gunman's girlfriend, this whole scene the alleyway just that. A scene she'd cooked up and convinced him to go along with, a bit of roleplaying as prelude for the two of them spending the afternoon together doing the kinky kind of things people did in a place like this when the foreplay was a pretend assault down the block, complete with a starter pistol to simulate real danger.

The two had been damn lucky that Tasha – or any other cop who might have come upon the scene – hadn't shot the guy, and that he hadn't accidentally hurt or killed his girlfriend in return since even blanks could do damage.

The story was a little too pat, too absurd, really, to be believed even without the Yelena factor, but the guy at registration had confirmed he'd rented the room to a young woman, had picked out the image Tasha's guy had given up as his girlfriend out of a choice of several daughters they'd managed to compile from cop phones, so they likely weren't walking into some sort of trap or ambush. They were prepared for that, of course, Clint and Phil accepting the loan of police vests before they'd started up the stairs, and they had additional officers taking up positions on each of the lower floors near the elevator in case something did happen and the freaky girlfriend tried to rabbit.

Phil moved into position. The door opened inward, meaning Clint would have the momentarily obstructed view as he stood on the right hand position of the door frame and Logan took the left. A nod from the two of them, from the other officers who were more there to keep an eye on the other closed doors down the hall, and Phil pounded, three times.

"Ms. Tsarfin, NYPD. Please open the door."

They didn't have a warrant and wouldn't breech the door without one, but if she was what her 'boyfriend' said she was –

"Donnie, this wasn't – " they heard first. "You didn't have to – "

The door opened before them. (As did a couple of others to either side, though those occupants, taking one look at the array of cops, pulled back in quickly.) Galina Tsarfin stood there wearing nothing more than a hastily belted robe as she took in the sight of them. She squeaked and stumbled back, the flush overtaking her body all too easily noted before she huddled within the robe she hurriedly straightened and overlapped.

"May we come in, Ms. Tsarfin?" Phil asked, his voice gentle and disarming.

The quick search they'd run on the name had her born of first generation Russian immigrants, nineteen and enrolled as a college student over at York, with no criminal record, not even a traffic offense. In reality she was indeed young, red-headed and pale-skinned, and immensely flustered as she nodded in answer to Phil's question. She retreated to the bed and sat down, her blush deepened as she took in how things looked, but this room didn't have any other seats and no one was going to question her need to steady herself, or do anything to make her more uncomfortable.

Phil gave her a smile at her courtesy and stepped forward, while Logan signaled the female uniformed officer to join them while having the other cops stayed back. Clint pushed the door halfway closed then stayed leaning against the frame while Logan moved on to search the bathroom before nodding that it was clear. No need to have everyone hear what was coming either. 

"What is this about?" the girl asked bravely, drawing herself up from her hunched position. She still looked terrified – and embarrassed – but she definitely had some mettle. "Has something happened to Donnie?"

"You could say that," Phil answered from where he'd taken up a position in front of her but not too close.

Officer Concepcion stood a little closer, while Logan had taken up a position near the bathroom, not quite behind Ms. Tsarfin, but also not where his more imposing presence might keep her intimidated.

"He is currently under arrest for attempted assault, for resisting arrest, and for firing a firearm in a threatening manner."

"It was a starter pistol, and he wasn't assaulting me, he, we – "  She stopped suddenly, the blush coming once more. "I don't suppose you'd believe we were making a film?" she tried, achieving a grin that was more bravado, but also showing that she knew her position was precarious, that she'd already implicated her boyfriend as well as confirmed her own involvement.

It would actually be amusing, if a sixteen-year-old girl wasn't missing because of their actions. Clint was pretty sure they'd been willingly complicit, but he still couldn't see a kidnapping and ransom angle, or any ill intent in their involvement.

"Donnie said the scene was your idea?" Clint asked, understanding Phil's soft approach, but not quite as willing to let things play out so slowly. His hand was beginning to ache in earnest, but more than that, he was tired, hungry, and getting tired of the assignment in general. 

He had a few suspicions of what was going on, wild-assed and solely based on the common Russian background angle. Nor could he figure out Yelena's endgame if he was right. If Yelena was trying to get out from under an abusive father, she would have found no better in reaching out to Tasha, and she'd had the perfect opportunity. If she was just trying to get an afternoon to herself, well, she'd not struck Clint as being that naïve or foolish to ignore the stir it would cause even if the police hadn't already been involved. He supposed she still could have been coerced somehow, but the expression on her face from the phone video had not been fear or anger, simply relief.

Tsarfina's expression became complicated, like she was warring with herself even as she paused in answering.

"As far as Donnie knows," she finally started, "yes, it was." She lifted her chin. "Sex was becoming boring and we'd talked about what we might do to freshen things up."

Boring, at nineteen. Someone either had unrealistic expectations, or they weren't doing it right. From Logan's roll of his eyes, he was thinking the same thing or something even worse.

"Did you read about doing something like that?" Phil asked evenly, as if he wasn't also thinking uncharitable thoughts about kids too stupid and inexperienced to deserve orgasms. "Maybe saw it in a movie?"

Tsarfina shook her head and bit her lip. "It came up in chat. On one of the boards I frequent. One of the other girls was complaining about how her dad didn't approve of her boyfriend and I mentioned she was maybe better off, that guys and sex weren't near as fun as everyone said."

Clint had to work at keeping his expression neutral while Logan got to silently crack up, though at least he shifted just enough that Tsarfina wouldn't notice since she was so busy staring at her hands that still clutched the robe closed at her breast and lap. Even Officer Concepcion looked like she was struggling not to react. And once more, Clint was left marveling at Phil's aplomb as he didn't even blink.

"It can be, once you find the right person," Phil told her, allowing a touch of warmth to soften his eyes.

That had Clint biting his lip, not because it was such a corny, Steve Rogers thing to say, but because of the warmth it brought to Clint from hearing it anyway. He liked to think that he was the practical one in their relationship, that he didn't need any hearts and flowers, that it was as much lust as it was love and friendship that fueled their passion, but the utter conviction in Phil's tone went straight to his heart, not his dick, and even Logan's face had gentled like it normally only did when Remy's name was mentioned.

God, but they were saps, the lot of them, and heaven help if this girl some sort of child spy and playing them.

"So it was your chat friend that suggested the outdoor roleplaying?" Officer Concepcion prompted, not unaffected herself by her own expression, but there was a subtle trace of amusement along with her compassion, and Clint knew she wasn't laughing at Ms. Tsarfina.

Tsarfina nodded. "That was a couple of weeks ago. I didn't really think anything about it, didn't really plan on doing it, but she texted me a few hours ago, said this was it, she was running off with her love and because she was so happy, she set things up for Donnie and me. Suggested this motel and told me her boyfriend had secreted the starter pistol just down the street. That we should go for it before someone else found it and, well, I said why not. So I called Donnie and called to make a reservation then we checked out the alley and thought it would be perfect. We didn't know the gun would sound real, that anyone would be able to hear it. I panicked when I saw the woman yelling for Donnie to back away and ran. Because it was another woman, though, out with a friend or maybe daughter – "

Clint was going to have to pass on the daughter remark to Tasha.

" – I then decided that maybe Donnie had added something to the scene himself, to prove he was into it too, or maybe one of them was my chat friend, helping to make the scene more realistic, so I came here to wait for Donnie.  I, ah, I guess I fell asleep while I was waiting. I didn't realize so much time had passed or that someone other than Donnie would knock on the door, much less the police..."

She broke off, the tears that had started to fill her eyes now spilling forth as the serious of the situation, and maybe the absurdity finally set in. Officer Concepcion took the final steps forward and sat down next to Tsarfina, at once putting her arm around the shaken girl and let her sob it out. Clint wasn't the only one who'd lost his humor over the situation as he, Phil and Logan stepped back out and into the hall.

"We don't know that your girl is the one who called this one," Logan said gruffly as they moved down and away from the door and the still on alert other officers.

Phil nodded. "Not unless we get access to Yelena's phone records, and Ms. Tsarfina allows us to look at hers, assuming she didn't already delete the text."

"I can believe that Yelena knew enough about her pending trip to the States to initiate the start of this, but that has to mean her boyfriend is here, too, even though she's never been here to meet him," Clint pointed out. "If this was Yelena and she was telling the truth about her father disapproving, that sounds like something more than simply an overseas, internet boyfriend. Why would Shostakov worry so much?"

Phil and Logan seemed to echo his suspicion and concern, but offered nothing.

"This seems like a lot of effort, both the preplanning as well as what went down today," Clint continued, more speculating out loud now than just voicing questions. "There is no way Yelena could have known that Tasha would take her to Salute, that Shostakov would pick today to check out the college and even bring her to Queens. So the motel, the gun, that had to be set up on the fly and that means the boyfriend had to be here already, not just in New York, but in Queens."

"No way that's just an internet boyfriend," Logan growled. "Not even Remy would take those odds. So if he doesn't live here, he arranged to come in with Yelena did. If we assume for a moment she's not found herself a sugar daddy but someone nearer her own age, what kind of kid has the money to fly to New York as well as convince his girlfriend that if she runs away with him, they're going to be okay? That might have worked fifty years ago if the kid was a mechanic or something, and Yelena could have picked up a job as a waitress, but nowadays it's got to mean the kid's either not a kid, is dealing drugs, or they're going to end up living on the streets. Is your girl the kind that would figure that as better than staying with her dad a couple more years? Anyone know what age Russian kids get emancipated?"

"Eighteen, unless they get married or get certain kinds of employment," Clint answered, though he wasn't all that comfortable yet in knowing that answer. "Tasha told me she was seventeen when her bosses introduced her to Shostakov."

What she hadn't said, and what Clint still didn't have the guts to ask, was how young she'd been when she'd been recruited as a government spy. Why her parents or someone hadn't been looking out for her.  Finding out she'd been married, even illegally, at seventeen had been hard enough to hear. One day he expected he'd at least ask how she'd managed to immigrate at nineteen, marveling at her resourcefulness instead of dwelling on all the reasons she would have had to leave.

"Are we taking Galina in?" Officer Concepcion directed down their direction as she stuck her head out the door. "She's gotten changed and is ready to leave …"

The officer's opinion was obvious on her face as well as how she'd let herself just trail off. Clint was still inclined to agree. Obviously Galina and Donnie had been stupid, but not criminally so, and getting a beat down from Natasha was probably punishment enough to keep Donnie from repeating his mistakes, as would Galina's embarrassment. They were just kids, who'd let themselves get used, and both had cooperated from the get go.

"Ask Ms. Tsarfina if we may have use of her phone for the afternoon," Phil instructed her, "and get the name of the chat room where this started. If she wishes to visit Donnie at the hospital, take her there, or take her home. Let her know that we will return her phone tomorrow, and that we'd appreciate it if she stayed at home or in school for the next few days in case we have further questions. That, for now, there will be no formal charges against her."

Phil shrugged. "He didn't just resist being arrested, but caused Detective Romanov to need stitches. That's going to be up to her and the DA."

Clint figured Tasha had gotten her pound of flesh for the stitches with the broken arm and nose. He also thought Bucky would find it all pretty funny, as long as Tasha was okay, and while Summers might have a stick up his ass, his fiancée, ADA Grey, had her own quirky sense of humor, enough that if neither she or Bucky thought it necessary, their boss probably wouldn't either.

At least as long as they found Yelena soon, and in good health.

*********

They did, surprisingly easy, once the other half of the situation made itself known. Clint, Phil and Natasha had been on their way back to the precinct when Phil's phone rang with Thor's ringtone: Adele's Set Fire To The Rain. (Thor's obsession with her music had only grown after the Loki incident; that song made him both emo and stupidly happy knowing the others had acquiesced to his wish for it represent him and, well, considering he'd almost had to kill the guy he thought of as his brother, it seemed easy enough to let him have it, even if it did remind Clint every time he heard it, that he still owed Loki some pay back for nearly killing Phil.)

Thor was calling to inform Phil that his charge, Yuri Stalyenko and the other bubblegum pop singer, hadn't come off the plane, that he'd never gotten onto the flight back in Russia in the first place.  From there, it had just been a matter of confirming through Customs that Stalyenko had actually arrived three days earlier, that indeed it was Stalyenko that Alexei Shostakov did not approve of as a match for his daughter – and that he'd had no idea Stalyenko been invited West by Turgenov, the whole concert thing not something Shostakov had paid any attention to.

They'd barely needed the confirmation from Tsarfina's phone that it had been Yelena who'd texted her during a bathroom break out from Natasha's eye, or that girls had met while both had been visiting a Stalyenko fansite just days after Turgenov had sent out his invitations, Stalyenko having concocted the basic plan of arriving in the US early, and Yelena slipping away from her father once she'd made it to New York herself.  From there it had been a matter of checking out the other American phone numbers in Yelena's phone records, and intimidating yet another front desk manager: the one at the Hôtel Plaza Athénée more intimidated by the type of press that might be garnered by allowing a sixteen-year-old girl to stay unchaperoned with nineteen-year-old boy, than the threat of the police and a warrant.

The room confrontation had gone quieter too, no bulletproof vests or additional unis, just Tony and Thor and Tasha, and a promise that Stalyenko could stay in the Stark building (though not on the same floor as Shostakov and his daughter), and that Tasha would do her best to convince Alexei to allow Yelena chaperoned visits and maybe even a date before everyone had to go back home. With one crisis down, they were back to sorting through terrorists and protest groups, along with Phil wanting to further investigate the security leaks. The entire squad, sans Fury, had reconvened at Tony's penthouse for dinner sprawled out amidst the giant-sized living room that overlooked Central Park with its massive floor to ceiling windows. The plan was to brainstorm as well as relax on this last evening before Shostakov and Stalyenko would be making the first of their public appearances, with Yelena and her father spending one more night at the Consulate. Justin Bieber had refused the NYPD's protection up until the concert and Yuri Stalyenko was staying one more night in his hotel room since he'd already paid for it.

Clint had tucked himself in next to Phil on one of the indecent couches, feeling lethargic from the food as well as the heavy duty pain killer he'd finally allowed himself. He was only half paying attention to Phil filling them in on a contact Logan had passed on within the State Department, some former Air Force test pilot now IT gal who apparently knew shit on just about everyone, giving her job took her to American Embassies across the world, yet kept her mostly invisible to the people's whose systems she'd been sent to work on.

Supposedly, if anyone had a list of State employees most willing to commit treason (or at least have inappropriate friends in the press or with Wikileaks), it would be Carol Danvers.

"Isn't it more likely the leak came from the Russians?" Tony asked from where he was mixing drinks at the bar. "Hell, I'd bet on someone from the NYPD before State, not because I don't think those guys can be trusted, but because I don't see what they'd get out of it. So far it's just been somewhat embarrassing, but if real shit goes down, we'll get the public blame, sure, but it's State that's going to have to deal with the long term fallout. I just don't see the profit margin."

"Don't discount public embarrassment, Tony, especially if it turns into an international incident," Thor spoke up. He stood at the bar watching Tony, fascinated by the show being put on as Tony played to his audience. (A few too many people had agreed when Darcy had decided Thor needed to see Coyote Ugly to further his education into American culture on the last movie night.)

"Russia would share in the embarrassment if, for instance, the Ambassador's plans for Unity Day end up being canceled, which could happen without any great catastrophe, just a continuation and build of the public outcry."

"Not everyone thinks the Cold War is over. I know of many in Russia who would be happy to see it heat up again and I imagine it is the same here. Few spies find becoming a civilian so … easy," Tasha offered from where she and Pepper were engaged in a speed deathmatch game of chess.  Pepper was the only one of the chess players here in the room who could beat Tasha on a regular basis, which was why she was the one normally challenged when Tasha wanted to play. And think, as contradictory as that sounded.

Tasha claimed the focus of speed chess freed up the rest of her mind to absorb and free associate multiple conversations going on around her. Clint thought it was bullshit, something she'd come up with to tweak Tony with since his was the brain that carried twenty different thoughts going on at once, all zipping around with breakneck speed. Trumped up spy stuff or not, it did seem to work at least during sessions like this, where people were just throwing out suggestions and observations. She almost always came up with something pithy or insightful that, if nothing else, nudged someone else to a reasonable conclusion.

"Is there a money angle?" Pepper asked.  "Canceling the concert would hurt the charity, but surely someone else might profit from that happening. Or from some other way if America or Russia's image is weakened on the international stage?"

And that was why no one had objected when Tony had invited Pepper to join them.  She had a different way of looking at things than the rest of them, such as the business angle when the rest of them had all been thinking political.

"I thought we were supposed to be narrowing down our options, not expanding them," Clint groused, because someone had to, even if Pepper's theory was just as valid as any of the others they'd so far come up with.

Steve turned his attention on Clint, but not to chastise him for his grouchiness. "There weren't any serious protestors, you said, when Dr. Shostakov visited Queen's College. Why not? They were there at the airport when the doctor arrived yesterday, so he is one of the targets, as was Stalyenko. He had both fans and protesters waiting for his arrival this afternoon."

Clint nodded, thinking to pull himself more upright if he was really going to join in the conversation, but Phil didn't let go with the hand he had around Clint's waist from where he was leaning against Phil's shoulder, and none of the others seemed anything but amused by the possessiveness, so Clint gave up. He had few secrets in front of these people and, apparently, little dignity.

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure Yelena thought we were going to be doing more sightseeing than just the campus," he offered and snuggled even deeper into Phil's warmth. "So Shostakov's plan to take them there must have been last minute. Unless he'd discussed it with the Ambassador outside of a time when his daughter was present, no one at the Consulate probably knew. I called it in to Phil, but I used my cell instead of going through Dispatch, and State wouldn't have known unless they've put a tail on us. Isn't that just trying to prove a negative, though? No one knew, so no one leaked, but who's to say they would have leaked that anyway?"

"Listen to you, all science-y with your propositional logic – "

"Tony!" Pepper protested, but Clint just talked over the bastard.

"I did call the Consulate, though, when Shostakov was being taken to the hospital. Do we know, did any protestors show up there while he was still admitted?"

"Logan didn't mention any, and I think he would have given my query into a reliable contact," Phil answered, tugging Clint down a little further onto his chest so that he could rest his head against Clint's.

In other circumstances, these public displays of affection might have freaked Clint out, even in front of his best friends, but in other circumstances, he doubted Phil would be so demonstrative. Or that he'd be so open about relishing the comfort himself. A broken bone wasn't the same as being shot by any means, but pain was still pain, and the comfort of feeling loved was a damn sight better than narcotics that made him feel stupid or loopy. He had enough of that, sometimes, just being in Tony and Bruce's presence.  

"While it's certainly not definitive proof, with nothing happening at the hospital, we are left with two conclusions," Steve tried again. "That whoever is providing the intel decided not to in this instance, or that whoever is behind it did not find out about what happened in time to make contact with one of the protest groups."

Bruce's head shot up from where he'd been watching Tasha go in for the kill with Pepper. "Maybe we're making this harder than it has to be," he suggested. "We're trying to trace the leak from the source, but we forgot the other commonality, although Steve just said it. Whoever is leaking the intel isn't calling a couple hundred of his closest friends and having them go out with a few signs and slogans. They're calling one person or maybe a handful at the most. Those are the ones with the activist friends. And we've got," he stopped for a moment and got up to move to the table holding the files and printouts they'd been collecting the last couple of days.

"We've got thirty-seven people who have, so far, participated in multiple protests," he told them after finding the sheet his was looking for. "Finding one out of thirty-seven, well, more than thirty-seven, probably, as we haven't identified everyone yet, but even if that number reaches toward a hundred, that still is a lot better odds than one out of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands."

"Go back to the first protest that sprung up right after the Ambassador announced his intent to publicly celebrate Unity Day," Tony instructed him with one of his eerie, manic smiles as excitement started to overtake the congenial boredom that had had him snarking more than participating. "If I was looking for a leader to keep things going, I'd be talking to one of those, to one of the people so offended by the announcement that they took to the streets."

They all waited while Bruce sorted through the data. "There are four whose names are on the list of the first protestors, as well as at least two others. And only five other people at that rally who've yet to be identified."

Tony held up his hands like a magician who'd just pulled off his best trick. "Now we just need four new warrants for phone logs, and start eliminating the numbers from fellow protesters, family members, friends and co-workers, unless, of course, one of those people works for the government, the NYPD, or at the Russian Consulate. It'll probably come from a burner phones, but once we have a string of unidentifiable numbers, we can monitor them and we just put out some bad intel to see which one makes the next call."

Thor cleared his throat. "You do realize that identifying the person passing on intel does not necessarily mean that our charges are then automatically safe?"

"Maybe not, but I'll feel more comfortable knowing who's definitely not on our side," Tasha said as she twisted to face the rest of them, showing no sign that contortion bothered her though it made Clint ache just to see it. (Sure, there had been a time when he'd been flexible too, but that had been too many years and too many flying takedowns and rolling across pavement ago.)

He had a feeling that the disgust in Tasha's tone came more from Pepper's grand come from behind win than Thor pointing out this could still all just be an exercise in logic – and futility.

"Perhaps we can't prove a negative," Steve offered, with a quick narrowed look Tony's direction, "but, like Natasha, I'd prefer knowing if we're just dealing with someone else offended by the Ambassador's actions or someone with a more serious grudge.  I am certainly not one to always be looking for the terrorist under the bed, but if it is, and if we can find out in advance what kind of people he can also call, we'll stand a much better chance of preventing a tragedy instead of just reacting to one."

"I, for one, will sleep much better with those words dancing in my head tonight, Steven. You should be writing motivational speeches. Or stirring scripts for those kind of war movies that make people well up and cry. Oscar material for sure."

Pepper simply buried her face in her hands this time, instead of protesting against Tony's callousness, but Steve looked more pleased than offended, or maybe Clint was getting a little fuzzier-headed from the meds than he'd thought. It wasn't like Steve needed Pepper to protect him from Tony's barbed tongue anyway, not if he had stealing Tony's clothes and making him wear a girl's babydoll tee of Justin Bieber in him –

"Better that you keep them with you during tomorrow's rehearsal, Tony," and oh, yeah, Steve didn't need anyone's help in putting Tony in his place.

"From what I understand from the research Darcy dug into, Mr. Bieber likes to run through his set a couple of different times, and generally goes through any new song for his act, maybe ten times so he's confident he'll remember the lyrics. Given this is a benefit as well as a present for the Ambassador's daughter, I imagine he'll be contemplating several new songs, that he might end up all day up on stage. And no earplugs allowed, in case you miss some threat, but then it's not like he's not gone on record as a GNR and Metallica fan. Maybe you can influence him into adding Fade to Black or something to his repertoire."

"And on that note," Phil said, carefully easing Clint upright against the back of the couch, then standing and tugging Clint to his feet, "it is probably time for us to look for our beds. Tony, would you prefer that we – "

"No, no, you're all still welcome to crash here tonight. Even Boy Scout America," Tony added, his mouth quirking along with his expression, but then he'd always preferred people that stood up to him, was willing to admit when someone got the best of him.

"Share if you want to go on down the apartments already set aside, or feel free to claim some of the guest rooms here. Jarvis will show you what's available."

Clint didn't care where they ended up, he just hoped it was relatively soon, as his brain and body had both hit the wall at least a half an hour ago. He was still managing to move mostly on his own feet, was only glad that Phil was there because he loved Phil, not because he needed him –"

"We do have to push a button if we're going to expect the elevator to go anywhere, Clint," Phil murmured in his ear. "And I don't know which floor or which apartment you claimed. Am I going to have to pick the lock once you tell me, or do you still have your key?"

Okay, so maybe he did need Phil a little bit.

"It's 407, same as yours."

That earned Clint another one of Phil's terrific hugs – and Phil then pawing through his pants to find his key ring. Tony could have ol' Captain America's words to keep him warm through the night if Pepper wouldn't. He had Phil's hands, and hugs, and his unique smell…

 

_Second Squad, this is Dispatch. For those of you patrolling down by McKenzie's, they are having a two for one sale on smoky delights because of the fire that took out their next door neighbor last night. While I'm all for the getting bargains, this is the third business to go up in the last month, so it looks like we've got a firebug on our hands, not just desperate people trying to cash in or keep warm in the current economy. If you spot anything likely our brothers in the NYFD will be happy to do a little proactive as opposed to reactive work._

When Clint woke up with a narcotic hangover and an empty bed, he figured that was just an indication of how the rest of his day was going to go. The clock had read ten-seventeen, which meant Phil had left for the precinct hours ago, that he had purposely left Clint behind. Okay, Phil had also left a note and had thought he was doing Clint a favor letting him sleep in, since had Clint not been on Shostakov duty, he would have at least the day off to recuperate a little from yesterday, but sleeping in generally did more harm than good for Clint, leaving behind a headache and muzziness even without the meds in his system. There also hadn't been any food in the apartment, not even any coffee, because he'd intended to go grocery shopping for a few things to get him through his stay, and had instead had to deal with a wannabe kinky coed who already thought her love life was stale, then the paperwork for said coed plus that for why his charge was in the hospital instead of chilling in his own Stark apartment, along with getting yelled at by Fury for the hospital thing, scolded by Phil for refusing to leave the precinct until Phil did, the 'rescue' of Yelena Shostakov and her paperwork, then off to Tony's, and nowhere in there had he had time to shop for food.

Or coffee.

He'd found coffee on the way to work, and some sort of pastry, which had cost him $15 and most of that for the coffee because of course Tony couldn't live in an area that had reasonably priced bodegas. The trend had continued after that, an okay news/bad news kind of thing, with Bruce's idea for identifying the mole coming to fruition surprisingly quickly, but it turning out to be someone within the Russian Consulate and, therefore, pretty much off limits though that hadn't stopped DHS from wanting to horn in once they'd identified her and her vague connection to the Russian election protests through a brother who had been killed during the violence in 2011.

For all they knew, her passing on the information might not be about her brother at all. Ambassador Turgenov could have seduced her, or scorned her, or maybe she had her own objections to Unity Day. They couldn't find out, because they couldn't question her, not at least without notifying the Ambassador as well as the State Department, and if they did either of those things, it was much more likely Lyudmila Belova would be placed completely out of reach of the NYPD.

So while they'd caught their gal, they didn't have any idea if she was orchestrating something sinister, basically putting them back to square one.  Clint was back on Shostakov watch, who had decided that Clint was his new best friend because of the punch and their bringing Yelena back, so while Tasha was once more sequestered off with Yelena and, this time, Thor as back up since Yelena had managed to charm her dad into letting her sit in on Stalyenko's rehearsal, Clint was seated next to Shostakov as he, Steve and Bruce had all been invited over to the Consulate to listen to Turgenov rehearse his speech. Dinner was supposed to be in the offing, but Clint would have to manage to stay awake through the third iteration of the Ambassador's speech for that.

He was beginning to think Tasha – that even Tony – had gotten the better end of the day because at least they had music to listen to, even if it was pop. The Ambassador kept trying to get their opinions on various of his statements instead of Shostakov's, like Clint knew or gave two fucks about Russian politics. As if Bruce and Steve both weren't getting a little hot and bothered by the jingoistic rhetoric Turgenov was spewing.

When at last, mercifully, Turgenov was satisfied and ready to whisk them out to dinner at the chef's skybox at Daniel for an eight course tasting meal (normally only available for four, the Ambassador had been quick to point out, along with how he'd personally talked the chef into cooking for five), Clint was almost glad to see the protesters again outside the Consulate, even if these had started throwing rocks. And bottles.

The uniformed officers keeping an eye on the crowds included a few mounted cops, so the more violent of the protesters were quickly pointed out and removed, well before the Russians could really do anything other than make sure their Ambassador and his guests made it into the armored limo.

It wasn't nearly as nice or comfortable as Tony's, but Clint figured he was getting a little grumpy again, that maybe it wasn't so bad. Nor was Clint likely to ever eat at Daniel outside of something like this, especially in the skybox, so he ought to be more appreciative, even if he was actually unimpressed. Phil was the one who picked all the quality restaurants, as Clint was more a burger and fries, Midwest steak and potato kind of guy. He was good enough about experimenting with different cultures and cuisines, but places where he had to wear a jacket and tie, and the sommelier sneered at him when he wouldn't even taste their stupid wine… no, those were not Clint's kind of places.

In the end, he figured it was somehow his fault. He'd been monumentally bored, mildly pissed off and practically spoiling for a fight or at least something interesting to happen. Seeing a red dot on the restaurant doorframe as he followed Shostakov out of the car was not what he'd had in mind.

"Gun" he yelled to warn the others as he tackled Shostakov to the ground just as the crack of the rifle sounded. Screams from passersby drowned out the duller impact of the bullet marring the art deco framework. Still, this was New York, so even as they were screaming, the pedestrians were dropping, the locals pulling down the tourists if they had to.

For Clint and his companions, their best cover – their only cover – was the car, but it was bulletproof. He scrambled off his charge, keeping below the car roof and duckwalked down toward the trunk to see if he could spot where the shot had come from even as he wondered about the shooter's discipline. A single shot was uncommon unless the guy was a pro; most random shooters tended to spray the area, especially if they missed the first time.

"Clint can you get a bead on where the shooter is stationed?" Steve asked from his position behind the front wheels of the limo. He had his phone in hand, had already called 911 while Shostakov, Bruce and the Ambassador found their own cover. Thank god that the limo was a stretch. Their driver was still in the car. Bruce seemed to be trying to talk the Ambassador into getting back in the limo himself, but it sounded like the Ambassador was too scared to move

"Got to be one of the brownstone windows, only a few floors up, as the angle wasn't steep enough to have come from a roof. It could be the building straight across, one of the outer rooms, or an outer room in either of the two buildings next door."

Clint didn't have near as much call for calculating bullet and sniper trajectories in his head as he'd done while as a sniper in the Marines, but there were some skills that never seemed to go away. It wasn't like he'd really ever studied it in the first place, aim just coming naturally to him whether it was one of his bows, or one of his rifles. Bucky had been nearly apoplectic when he'd found out that Clint rarely used a finder. 

"I'll have to break cover to give you more than that."

"Don’t you fucking dare – " Steve started in, but it was too late.

Clint wasn't suicidal, though. He'd waited for a car to be driving past to give him temporary cover so he could reach the cab no more than twenty yards away, already planning on moving before he'd started giving Steve his assessment, since they weren't accomplishing anything by staying stationary. Steve moved too, because he was incapable of not providing cover, something Clint might have not so nicely taken advantage of. Steve fired off two quick shots into the pavement (because he wasn't about to earn himself any collateral damage) before tucking himself back behind the car, swearing at Clint like the Army puke he really was instead of the Boy Scout Tony always accused him of being. The change of target was enough to get the sniper firing blindly in both directions, finally showing that he wasn't a professional by keeping his eye only on his real target. The five shots gave Clint the opportunity to confirm the location of the muzzle flash and count floors and windows. 

"Building straight across, fourth floor from the street, third window from the north."

Clint didn't have to have eyes on Steve at this point to know he was looking daggers at him, but the swearing had stopped while Steve called in the particulars to the ESU team on its way. It was either the second round of firing, or Bruce's growing rage that got the Ambassador finally moving, Shostakov working the door open then helping Bruce shove Turgenov in while Bruce worked to keep the Ambassador's head down below the car's roof. Shostakov followed, not much more gracefully, but that didn't really matter given it looked like they'd both rolled from the seats onto the floor for added protection. Bruce didn't even flinch when another shot sounded, relying on the car's armor proofing maybe a little too much as he wrenched out the wires that had turned the interior lights on when the door had opened, but then they were all relying on the limo stopping the bullets, so …

"Do we send the driver on?" Bruce asked.

"Yes," came the Ambassador's shrill shout, before Shostakov seemed to shame him into shutting up.

Of course, the answer should have been yes, they were the civilians as well as foreign nationals, and the consequences would be something fierce if anything happened to either of them. But the car was their safety net, the only safety net on the street, and while Clint knew the other two were just as willing to take their chances as he was if the car abandoned them, there was no telling how their gunman might retaliate at losing his target, and there were too many other civilians in their own, much less secure places of cover, some just as flattened as they could be against sidewalks and unmoving in the hopes that they wouldn't be spotted. Obviously the doorman inside Daniel was keeping its patrons from exiting, but there were other doors along the street, where people might not have heard the shots or thought anything of them, and it should only be a few more minutes before patrols would be on scene, able to help with containment and evacuations –

"No," Steve finally said, when Clint didn't.

Technically Clint had the seniority in the A-squad, second only to Phil, so the call should have been his. Steve, however, had the military rank as well as the natural leadership abilities, and Clint had no problem deferring to him in this type of situation. It wasn't that he couldn't make those kind of calls, but he wasn't so much the big picture guy, was instead the one calling back the details so someone else could incorporate them into the overall plan. Steve had also already taken the lead in his initial request for Clint's take on the sniper, so it didn't seem right to assert his authority now when they were all going to be doing whatever the Emergency Service Unit told them to once they were on scene anyway.

 

*******

"You know, I half expected Thor to come screaming down the street on a Harley," Bruce offered, along with a cup of coffee for Steve and one of hot chocolate for Clint when the two of them finally came out of the apartment building, having had to wait for their look at the sniper's set up until after SWAT had secured the sniper and sent him off in one of the patrol cars.

"Yeah," Steve agreed. "Same kind of night, time of year, temperature. At least it was only one gunman this time instead of… how many when Natasha placed that call to you at the youth center?"

Clint shrugged and shook his head. He knew exactly what Bruce had referred to, Thor's race up and down the street on Steve's Harley before he'd skidded it on its side while firing like something out of an absurd Hollywood movie. Clint also remembered his part in that incident well enough, that he'd taken out at least one of the gangbangers Tasha and Bucky had stumbled over from a position on a roof while he'd nearly frozen lying in the snow, but beyond the kid who'd pissed his pants that Tasha had later brought out, he couldn't recall how many others had come out alive, or how many had fallen to someone else's shots.

"Do we know anything more about this gunman?" Clint asked instead.

They'd get their crack at him, but had agreed to let him be booked in the local precinct, with Bruce volunteering to head up the interrogation once he was processed – and once Tasha arrived, since from what Clint had heard of the guy's rants in Russian, no one was sure if he understood very much English. Clint had known enough to be able to offer the guy his Miranda rights, but he certainly wasn't qualified to for much more than that if it was going to have to be conducted in Russian.

"Only that the name on his passport is Vassily Ilyich Ulyanov, and that he's been here in the States on a student visa for the last six months," Bruce answered. "Not expired, by the way. He's here legally through next spring."

"Other than what he just did is going to get him deported."

Bruce nodded his head. "Other than that. So far, no militant ties in his background, but Tony has volunteered to find if there is any connection between him and Lidia – "

"Lyudmila Belova," Clint corrected him, having made it something of a hobby of picking up on Russian names as well as parts of the language.

Bruce nodded again. "Ms. Belova. Tony has also, by the way, offered the use of one of his apartments, rent free for a year if someone will trade duties with him before tomorrow night's concert. Fair warning, I might take him up on it, since I'm already living there, and it would be nice to bank a year's rent for a rainy day."

Even if Bruce was serious – or Tony was – Clint doubted Fury would let them change at this point. Even if Bieber had hated Tony, he'd still had a day to get use to him, and vice versa, which might mean everything now that guns had come to play. No matter what, tomorrow was going to be a long day, and they still had several hours to get through tonight before they could prepare for it. At least Clint could do most of his report from his temporary Stark apartment, once they snuck Shostakov and his daughter in. His first stop, however, was going to be food; this was the second time he'd been promised such while with Shostakov, only to have violence interrupt. 

"What I think would be nice is getting a chance to eat," Clint proposed as he followed the other two toward the unmarked car Bruce had managed to procure. Surely there was time before they dropped Bruce off at the local precinct.

"I could eat," Bruce agreed.

Steve scowled for an instant, no doubt chaffing at having to wait even longer before he could read Clint the riot act for breaking cover, but food was important, was almost sacred to them when it was so easy to be called out before getting to it, or interrupted in the middle of a meal.

"Please, I promise I'll listen better when you yell at me if I have a burger down my gullet," Clint pleaded, having already missed too many meals over the last couple of days to let it go so easily this time. "I'll even wait to take tonight's dose."

Now that, he knew, wasn't playing fair, but Clint had never said he wasn’t also an asshole. Reminding Steve that he was working while injured was definitely a shitty thing to do, Clint knew it – Steve knew it – but Clint also knew that Steve knew that Clint's intel had made a difference in how quickly SWAT had been able to get to the sniper, that there really hadn't been any better way.

"You do know you're as bad as Tony sometimes," Steve told him, the scowl returning along with the same expression of resignation Tony often got from Steve. "Bad with teamwork, not above manipulating people to get your way. Maybe I should ask Phil how he manages to put up with you?"

Clint couldn't believe he'd already forgotten that Steve had finally learned to get even. "Fuck you, Rogers," he said with a rueful grin and a shake of his head while Bruce just laughed. He had no doubt that Steve would do exactly that, complete with telling Phil why he was asking.

"Do you kiss Phil with that mouth, Barton?"

"Just get in and drive, find us a McDonalds or something that's still serving," Clint growled as he pushed the paragon of health and virtue toward the driver's side. He left the shotgun seat for Bruce, climbing into the backseat that at least didn't have a steel barrier separating it from the front.

"At least you know tomorrow has got to get better," Bruce offered as he took his seat.

"Jesus, Bruce, I can't believe you just said that! You've fucking jinxed us for sure."

 

_Second Squad, this is Dispatch, who wants to know where her flying car is. She was promised a flying car, and so far, the future is not living up to its potential, Tony Stark, so get right on that. After you get back from your Justin Bieber concert, of course. For the rest of you, today's word is defenestration. While there has been a rash of people being thrown out of windows over the last couple of days and Lt. Sitwell is glad for the timely reports, fenestration refers to the arrangement of windows. Defenestration is the word for getting tossed through one. If you're not sure, people, look it up._

Despite Bruce's dire pronouncement the night before, things had been going pretty well for Clint and all of the A-Squad so far. Tony's look into Ulyanov's background had showed no connection to the mole or the Consulate at all, a simpler check had him working as a busboy at Daniel, and that he'd been working through lunch when the Ambassador had made his call to get the skybox for that night; Turgenov not being the only one who'd bragged about his bribe in displacing the folks who'd gotten the reservation in first along with preparing for five instead of four people. While they weren't giving up completely on connecting the guy back to rebels or insurrectionists, Ulyanov had freely admitted he had a personal grudge, that his grandparents had been Polish and killed during the Katyn Massacre back in 1940, and that he'd found the Ambassador's public celebration of Unity Day to be so personally offensive that it had to be stopped. Given how inept he'd been in firing his rifle, Clint had more or less believed him when Natasha reported back that Ulyanov had claimed he hadn't intended to actually hit anyone, but that almost meant that getting Ulyanov off the street hadn't really ended their problems.

If they really had problems and weren't just reacting with their own cynicism and paranoia.

Tony had gotten back at Steve (and, really, all of them), by wiring Steve's precinct computer and his Starkpad to play raw snippets of Bieber's rehearsal every time Steve clicked his space bar or enter key and, short of not using them, no one had figured out a way to make it stop – well, until Fury had ordered Tony to make it stop.  (If there was anything worse than canned Justin Bieber, that had to be Bieber without all of the audio tweaks and enhancements. Or Beiber unplugged.)

Everyone was now back to being scattered, looking after their individual assignments, but after the excitement of the last couple of days, no one seemed very inclined to spend much time out in public, which for Clint and Natasha, meant they'd returned to their Stark apartment, taking alternating two hour shifts keeping a direct eye on the Shostakovs from inside their living room, while the other could lounge around or take advantage of the electronic (and not) toys that Tony had provided for them in their own. Clint currently had the babysitting duty, his trade off for not needing as long as Tasha to doll herself up for the charity concert and reception afterward meaning he was stuck wearing his monkey suit a couple of hours longer than he otherwise would have had to.

While James Bond – and Tony Stark – might be able to pull off the tuxedo and gun effect, Clint wasn't so smooth, and definitely wasn't a bowtie kind of guy. He felt lucky that the reception was Black Tie Optional. Having still spent as much for his suit as he might have a tuxedo, he'd gotten one made for him a few years back on Phil's advice that included perfect tailoring so that he could carry concealed without alarming the civilians. But no matter how high the price tag or proper the cut, with his build he looked a lot more like a compact bodyguard than he did a suave secret agent. 

Deciding to go with the image tonight instead of fighting it (tonight was not the time to pretend the Shostakovs didn't have protection), he opted for a black shirt to go with the black suit and waistcoat, along with a pale silver tie that he'd not yet bothered to knot. Not quite full Mafioso, but he'd mastered an equivalent to their don't fuck with me attitude at an early age that would serve him better than his nice, trustworthy police officer manner – or by pretending he wasn't a society misfit.

He'd already startled Yelena by not being the guy she'd only been vaguely aware of trailing after her dad when she'd come out of the room she'd been hold up in for hours in tears, but she'd still found the courage to ask him to call Natasha, that his partner might come over and take Yelena back to the other apartment to help her get ready.

Probably fortunate for them all, Tasha had simply said yes instead of informing Yelena that she usually came to Clint for help with her makeup beyond the bare minimum or that she trusted Clint with her hair more than she did the high-priced stylist she frequented every few months. Worst case, they could always call Pepper down from the Penthouse to help, though Clint was confident that Tasha didn't really need his help and, anyway, was skilled in bringing out the beauty in other people that she often denied for herself.

Shostakov was going the classic black tie tuxedo, white shirt route, having just had them delivered, and with his height and build, he'd be probably end up looking like a bulked out, stretched up Daniel Craig.  Like Thor's older, sterner brother. (Thor loved formal suits and tuxedos, because, of course, they loved him.) Clint wasn't sure if Shostakov had chosen his attire out of respect for the Ambassador and the charity (The Mikhail Prokhorov Cultural Initiatives Foundation), or whether he was more out to intimidate and shame Stalyenko by showing the boy he wasn't good enough for Yelena.

As for the others, he knew that Phil, like Tony, would also opt for a tux, something Clint was looking forward to seeing. He figured even with Tony helping Bruce dress, their resident absent-minded professor would be happier in a formal suit over a tuxedo. Steve still preferred his Army dress blues in black tie situations, and everyone loved a guy in uniform, but given this benefit was Russian in backing and invitation, Clint wasn't sure how that might fly, or how uncomfortable Steve might become if he got singled out because of his past service. (Clint hadn't even thought of wearing his Marine blues; not because he was ashamed or felt he didn't deserve to wear them, but he'd chosen the Marines as a way out, not because he'd bleed for God and country, and he felt it a disservice to all the others who did, literally and figuratively.) As for Fury, he might show up in his NYPD Captain' blues, in a tux, a suit or, hell, even in his traditional trench coat and turtleneck because even if they were thinking it, no one would actually say it wasn't allowed, and any attention taken off of the potential targets because Fury refused to play by etiquette's rules could only be a good thing.

Thinking about it, he couldn't wait to see what Tasha had decided on either. He'd really dug the Audrey Hepburn look for the airport and thought she'd look even more stunning in that black sheath, or maybe in 1930s or 40s glamour. Of course, Tasha was also on the job, but if anyone could figure out where to conceal a few weapons –

"Friend Barton, Detective, what do you think?"

Yup, a Russian James Bond. If Natasha too often made him feel clumsy, this Russian made him feel like the hick and street rat he really was. Clint strove to put it out of his mind; Phil loved him anyway, and what he could do with his body was a lot more important than how it looked. It would probably be easier to take Shostakov down now than even before, since he seemed much more concerned with keeping up his appearance than what might happen if he had to protect it.

******

He'd been right, Natasha was absolutely stunning, despite not wearing anything Clint had imagined he'd find her in. She had her own, perfect cut, single-button black tuxedo, complete with satin stripes and lapels, a white bibbed shirt, white bow-tie and pocket square. Very Marlene Dietrich, except that the low slung vest appeared to shimmer a deep claret instead of being white, and she'd forgone the top hat. Instead, she'd smoothed her hair back and gathered it in a club at her neck. One which apparently held and concealed a real club that she had to show him, a wooden, dumbbell-shaped yawara stick that she could conceal between her palm and folded over fingers and used to give a hit added strength, or could be turned so that one end was applied to a nerve cluster and deaden it in seconds. She carried no visible holster or gun, but her pants were wide enough she could have something inner thigh that could be reached through a pocket, and while the legs of the pants were tapered down to her four-inch stilettos and, thereby, not providing any room for an ankle holster, the heels themselves could do some damage, plus she had plenty of places she could conceal a flat throwing blade if she needed some kind of distance weapon.

Yelena was a surprise, too, opting for (or being talked into) a long, understated bluish dress that flowed elegantly over her slender body, not anything childish or too prom like, but also not something that made her look like she was twenty-one instead of sixteen. That was the biggest surprise, as most kids Clint came across in the course of his job always wanted to appear older than they were, even most of the ones where that meant they could also be tried as adult if they weren't careful. He could see Tasha's influence in the decision, but also noted the calculated look Yelena couldn't quite hide while she basked in her father's approval for her choices too.  Smart kid, realizing that she'd have lost her battle with her father about seeing Stalyenko if he was already thinking she was trying to leave him, no matter who'd come up with it.

***********

For all that this was one of the most astounding buildings he'd ever been in, the United Palace up in Washington Heights, the concert was simply mind-numbing. Forget the bubble-gum music or the singing, it was the screaming that had Clint wanting to puncture his own eardrums. That had him worrying the girls were going to do it for him. The only virtue in that was because of the nature of the event, the location the Ambassador had chosen, there were only a fifteen or sixteen hundred of them instead of an arena full. Unfortunately, that seemed to make little enough of a difference, even out here in the foyer by the open bar that Shostakov and a lot of the other parents had retreated to during intermission and had just stayed. The screams were louder than the music.

Tony, the smug bastard, had made a point of reminding the rest of them that only he and Thor had access backstage, that they'd be behind the speakers and have curtains between them and the screaming, adoring fans. He was probably hanging out in the Green Room right now, away from everything but the monitor that streamed what was going on onstage, since Bieber had had the first set and wouldn't be coming back on until the end of Stalyenko's where they intended to do a couple of songs together.

It could be worse, Clint supposed, since Tasha and Steve were still stuck being part of the audience sitting next to Yelena and Orina. Bruce was next door at the annex, overseeing the final preparations for the reception, and there'd been no sign of Phil or Fury yet, but then rank did have its privilege, and there was still forty minutes of the concern scheduled.

Clint was staying near Shostakov, but not right next to him, as the professor had found himself a group of indulgent fathers who were comparing the virtues of their daughters. Everyone out here held a glass in their hands, whether it held wine, beer or, as in Clint's case, simply water. Catching Shostakov's eye, Clint gestured with his glass upward to telegraph his intent and waiting for the other's nod in agreement. Since coming under sniper fire the night before, Shostakov was taking the threats and his escort much more seriously, so Clint didn't assume his charge was going to sneak out on him. He still let the squad know he was on the move, speaking into the special Stark comm units Tony had brought out for them again as he heading up to the mezzanine balcony that overlooked what had once been the ticket and concession area of a grand old movie palace, to get an overview of who was on the floor with Shostakov, and who might be paying special attention.

Now the sounds were just from the screams and the bass, along with the patter and pourings of cocktail parties. And Tasha muttering quiet curses – in French, Clint was pretty sure, since Yelena might have picked up on the Russian.

He wasn't alone up here. Since this was a Russian sponsored event, the Consulate was providing their own security along with the voluntarily conscripted NYPD. The squad had been introduced to their Russian counterparts, all of them supposedly, but Clint thought there were likely others mingling in with the attendees, such as the guy who probably looked just as out of place as Clint did up here amidst mostly couples who'd foregone the offerings at the bar to spend their time waiting by studying the eclectic architecture with its wild mix of Hindu, Oriental and European furnishings and ornaments that made this place look like something out of the movies instead of something that used to show movies.

He couldn't really imagine that, what it would have been like going to double features here, back when movie houses showed double features (and cartoons and news reels) that cost just a nickel, or even a quarter, with the same kind of casual privilege and frequency that kids hit the multiplexes with now. This grand, if gaudy lady demanded a kind of reverence, and he could much easier see how it had become its current incarnation as a church that just happened to rent itself out occasionally to more secular uses. Catching a concert here, or an off-Broadway show would be cool; something where the staging and acoustics mattered. Where formal  wear mattered, because as much as Clint fretted when forced to wear something like that himself, looking down now at all of the designer dresses and suits, they certainly fit the old gal, even if the current use did not.

"Bieber just got the five minute warning," Tony's voice cut across Tasha's continued subvocals and Clint's thoughts. "We are proceeding back stage. Bruce, how does it look over your way?"

"Phil and Captain Fury arrived a couple of minutes ago. And, Tony, you owe me five bucks. The captain has a very nice tuxedo and stylish overcoat, not just his usual and the leather Lobby trench. It also looks like the go ahead has been given to start letting in the donors that didn't bother with the concert," he plowed on, not giving Tony time to respond, "Not to mention that it appears to be snowing. Our Russian counterparts have taken over checking invitations, but otherwise everything looks like it is going smoothly. No one seems to be objecting to the sudden lack of professional courtesy."

"These first people are the Ambassador's special invitees," came from Phil, so Bruce must have gone over to give him one of Tony's special comms instead of just noting their arrival. "They would be used to Consulate security and, yes, it is snowing. Rather heavily, which seems to have put a damper on the all but the most dedicated protesters since the crowds about half of what you called in when this started."

Clint didn't want to think about how the snow could be just as uncomfortable for them, how it could obscure sight lines and muffle warning sounds when they eventually went back outside. He chose, instead, to speculate on whether Fury would have accepted his own Stark comm, and quickly decided no. He'd come tonight, not because he didn’t trust his people in their jobs, but because not doing so could have been construed as an insult by the Ambassador – that what was going on didn't merit a police captain's bother. The squad really didn't deal in these kinds of operations too often, didn't really work together as a whole out on the street beyond their individual partners. In the few times it had happened, the business with the Bronx Zoo last year aside, Phil was the one normally calling the shots from the command post, while Fury stayed behind to deal with or distract the Brass.

"Any updates or changes in schedules I need to know?" Phil then asked.

"Yes," Thor answered before the rest of them could. The wonder of Stark's comms, they were really only hearing Thor, not the cacophony going on around him.

"These young ladies have astonishing stamina and remarkably strong voices. I would have thought they'd have screamed themselves out by now. Or preferred to actually hear the music being offered them. We have had a few trying to reach the stage when young Bieber could not restrain himself from reaching out despite our wishes, but there have been no other incidents beyond those, and one over-excited miss who fainted."

"No one understands the minds of teen-age girls, Thor," Tony offered. "The screaming seems to be genetic."

Clint could hear Tasha collecting herself to blast Tony for the blatant sexist remark, but she stopped herself, since the current evidence did seem to support Tony's theory.

Tony wasn't done anyway, though he seemed to move to sniping at his charge, which implied just as much as the increasing volume in screaming that Bieber had gone back on stage.

"We're running about twenty-five minutes behind, Phil. Bieber decided he wanted to handle the VIP meet and greet without a wingman, and Stalyenko demanded his own time with them. If anyone cares, it appears as if the dislike between our primadonnas is quite mutual.

"You wouldn't know if from the way they're working together on stage," came from Steve, quite clearly although it didn't sound like he'd intended to be overheard since he wasn't disguising his wonder despite having to know that Tony would rib him for it.

Clint didn't give Tony the chance, not because he felt the need to intercede on Steve's behalf (whatever had prevented Steve from dishing that kind of shit right back had certainly gone out the window in the last few weeks), but because he wanted his own turn with Phil, childish as it may seem when they were on the job. And because what he had to say was about the job, a definite update as well as change.

"The two singers are still scheduled to make their presentations at the reception soon after the concert is over, but that's going to be even more delayed," he added. Shostakov had demanded he get a few minutes alone with Stalyenko before either of them head over. He's also asked Tasha to escort Yelena from the reception early. "Tasha's going to take Yelena over to the slumber party Turgenov set up for Orina." That would be news to Yelena, who'd been planning on staying at least as long as Stalyenko did. Tasha's actual comment after Shostakov had walked away had been taken a bet on how big Yelena's meltdown was going to be.

"Slumber party?" Phil's tone held a note of surprise over undercurrents of concern and maybe even unhappiness.

"Sorry, yeah," Bruce apologized for them not mentioning this not so little update  of plans first.

"Turgenov sprang the news on us just as we arrived and were getting out of the car. He's arranged for a room over at the Hôtel Plaza Athénée, along with sleeping bags, snacks, security and chaperones for all of the daughters of the Consulate staff who are attending the concert so they can stay up and talk about tonight without getting into trouble with their parents for not being able to get to sleep. Tasha was also asked to stay as one of the chaperones."

Which was the real reason for her vile mood beyond having to stay in the middle of the screaming horde. Clint knew that Steve was also intending to stay with her, though he hadn't been requested, not just because Orina would be there and Steve took his responsibilities that seriously whether he'd been dismissed from escort duty or not, but also because Clint wouldn't be able to be there backing up Natasha and someone should.

"Isn't the Athénée where Stalyenko was first staying when he came into town ahead of the schedule we were provided?" Thor asked.

"Yes, it was," Phil confirmed, his throat making that little hum that meant he was thinking, that he wasn't sure if he should be disturbed by what he'd heard and was thinking.

Clint had only heard himself the party was in the offing, not the where. He was pretty certain Stalyenko wasn't sneaking off from Stark Tower without them knowing, however, and he knew Yelena wouldn't be able to get past Tasha again.

"Do we know how many girls were invited?" Phil asked, his train of thought obviously not following the same path as Clint's.

"Maybe twenty," Bruce started.

"Twenty-two," Tasha's voice hissed quietly enough that only the Stark tech would have heard it, not her neighbors. "Which means there are at least twenty-two parents who knew about this before we did."

Shit, Clint had missed that entirely. They all had until Phil, which was why Tasha sounded so pissed.

"Not just the parents, but whoever the girls tweeted to so they could brag." Tony sounded just as mad at himself. "How can we – "

"We've not pulled Maria's people into this as much as we figured," Phil reminded them, his voice as unruffled as normal, with no hint of recriminations. "I will ask Nick to request she send a couple of people over there now to check out the arrangements. No one has targeted the girls, so far, and there is no reason to think that will change. Even the Russian student who fired on the limo has plenty of public opinion behind him once the interview where he said he was just trying to scare the Ambassador into doing the right thing was published. Harming an innocent would swing public opinion firmly toward the Ambassador."

"Hey, guys, is the concert over?" Bruce suddenly asked.

"No, they're doing their final encore," came from Tony.

"So the band is still on stage?"

Before anyone could confirm that, Bruce continued, "I've got one of them, the keyboard player, I think, talking to one of the Consulate security guys over here. It could just be some final prep about how the singers are going to be brought in, but they're not exactly flouting that they're meeting. I thought the drummer was Stalyenko's handler, not the piano player."

"Stage manager's signaling sixty seconds to the end of the song," Tony warned them. "He's going to let them stay on stage another sixty to take their bows, then black it and wait no more than a minute and a half to bring up the house lights. If we're going to make any last minute change ups, we need to know now, folks."

"We don't have enough to warrant a change at this point," Phil made the call. "Proceed as planned."

He never added things like be extra vigilant, or even 'stay on your toes'; Phil, like Fury, trusted them to do that anyway, without the reminder. In Clint's mind, he saw it as being treated like an adult, and appreciated the fuck out of it. Attaboys were a little different and he knew he soaked up praise like a sponge, but he didn't need them anymore than he needed prodding to do his best at his job. That was all on him, not someone else's condemnation or affirmation

(If there had been one single thing Clint had hated most as a Marine, it had been his time as an anonymous grunt between basic training and sniper duty. He'd quickly picked up on the psychology behind boot camp, had been a dumb, directionless kid himself who'd thought the guys given the orders were asses or worse before he'd realized they were trying to help him and had all been there themselves; that some of the commanders actually deserved his respect. But he'd never been good with being talked down to, and had resented the fuck all of the guys who'd decided with him only having earned a GED, he couldn't take a piss without someone telling him how.)

Proceeding as planned meant that Clint needed to get his ass back downstairs and over to Shostakov, to get the professor moving toward the back of the house before the doors opened and the masses spilled out to make even staying nearby one another a monumental task. The Ambassador, Orina and Yelena had their own VIP exit that Steve and Tasha would be maneuvering them toward, downstage and through a door that had additional security standing by on both sides of it. The plan was to take them to the Green Room while the band and singers were escorted to their dressing rooms, to wait twenty or thirty minutes before then parting ways, Steve with Orina and off to the hotel so she could get make her own appearance in front of her 'friends', Tasha and the Ambassador's bodyguards responsible for getting Yelena and Turgenov over into the Annex.

He could hear Tasha telling Yelena that her father would be joining them in a few more minutes, which was his cue to get Shostakov to his come-to-Jesus meeting with Stalyenko.

Stalyenko had his own dressing room, just as Bieber did, while Stalyenko's band and Bieber's dancers were sharing two more.

"Be advised, the keyboard player has left the Annex to return, I assume, to join up with the band."

"Thor?" Phil asked.

"I have not had much interaction with them, as Yuri has not, but I have been assured by both Yuri and his handler, that they are the same people he has been performing with over the last year, and have found several image accounts from concert goers across Europe who seem to support this as well. If this is a lie, if the internet accounting is window dressing and subterfuge, then someone's scope is wide, and the handler, at least, is involved. Of Yuri, I cannot honestly say that he pays enough attention to his bandmates to really know whether someone had been substituted or not. He is very … self-involved."

And obviously not standing next to Thor, who still had a little problem between his indoor and outdoor voice when he spoke English, though he had finally gotten away from always proclaiming things either boisterous or solemnly.  (His Norwegian was soft-spoken, melodic, really quite pleasant to listen too, but not even Bruce or Natasha could understand a word he said in it.)

Clint and Shostakov made it back to the dressing rooms at the same time the keyboardist did. Clint could see nothing in his manner that made him come across as suspicious, other than his disappearance during the encore in general and the clandestine conversation. The man made no special note of Shostakov before he slipped into his dressing room, not even seeming disappointed that there weren't any groupies trying to get in along with him.

Maybe that was the way it always was at a Russian concert, no groupies allowed until the band got to their hotels.

There was no sign of Thor in the corridor, but when Clint knocked on Stalyenko's door, Thor was the one who answered. Inside, there was no sign of Stalyenko except for strewn clothing from earlier costume changes, and several half empty bottles and glasses.

"Yuri is next door with young Justin for a moment," Thor spoke up before there were questions. "He knows of your request for a meeting, Dr. Shostakov, and I have been instructed to retrieve him in –" a quick look at his watch – " three more minutes. There is still some discussion as to who is going to make their presentation to the charity first."

Clint managed to refrain from rolling his eyes; those two had almost come to blows as to who was going to perform last during the concert, until Tony had reminded Bieber about all of the extra excitement and giddiness that was generated when he'd joined Selena on stage a couple of years ago. Shostakov merely snorted and made a careful inspection around the room, his disdain growing as he took in the mess, a pair of girl's panties, the box of condoms the idiot had also left out. Clint didn't particularly care for Shostakov, but even he was getting disturbed by the thoughts of Yelena being with such a jackoff.

"Hey, pops, here I am!" Stalyenko suddenly said from behind him, not having bothered to wait for Thor. Of course, he wasn't alone, as his handler walked in right after him, and maybe it hadn't been Stalyenko's choice to come back to his own room if the sour face was an indication along with Stalyenko's patently false geniality.

"I requested a private meeting – "

"You going to kick out your bodyguard?" Stalyenko shot back with a quick frown toward Clint.

That was a no, as far as Clint was concerned, Stalyenko had already proven he couldn't be trusted to do the right thing when it came to Yelena, that he had no regard for her father.

For a moment Shostakov drew himself up to his full height and breadth. Clint noted Thor subtly preparing himself for a potential altercation in his peripheral vision, but after offering only a look of pure hatred, Shostakov sat himself down. He made a point of removing the condom box first, of drawing Stalyenko's attention not just to it, but how Shostakov's hands dwarfed the damn box as he put it down.

Clint let out the breath he'd been holding and forced the tension from his shoulders. The mood of the room hadn't relaxed an iota, but at least it didn't appear as if Shostakov was going to take a swing at the  kid. His tension eased for all of two seconds, and then Shostakov and Stalyenko began their conversation, in Russian.

Yeah, Clint really hadn't thought that one through.

While he could follow maybe one word in ten (mostly the curses), it was pretty obvious what was being discussed even without recognizing Yelena's name popping up now and again. Clint kept half an eye on them and their body language, but he also shifted just enough to the handler was in sight too. That guy looked just as pissed as the other two, but his expression really hadn't changed from how it had been when he'd entered, so he could be just as pissed at Stalyenko as he was from seeing – and now listening – to Shostakov. There were definitely nuances here beyond a father disliking a boyfriend.

No longer even trying to puzzle out the conversation, Clint let his mind sink into that while he kept his eyes tracking the argument. In all of their searches for potential terrorist plots and moles, they'd forgotten there was one other person who'd known intimately the details of Yelena's arrival and schedule and, therefore, her father's. Someone who knew how to take advantage of distractions, to create distractions, coercing strangers into helping him as well as talking Yelena into doing idiotic things.

Pepper had suggested the money trail, but that was just one aspect of asking who had the most to gain from chaos. Yuri Stalyenko's name should have been on that list.

They were convinced there was a real threat here, something bad that was going to either happen amidst tonight's events, or during tomorrow's speeches. Even Fury felt that way. Sure, a part of it was simple paranoia, not in the least over what would happen if they weren't taking things seriously enough. Everyone was seeing terrorist plots these days, and the NYPD would catch the blame just as much as the alphabet soup Feds, or the President, if something new exploded on their watch. It was just the nature of a post 9-11 world.

Clint thought it was genuinely more than that this time, however. Between the six or eight of them, counting Phil and Fury, they were ex-military, ex-Interpol, ex-spy, and a couple of certified geniuses, with a fuck load of years and experience in smoking things out beyond simple investigative skills. For all intents and purposes, they'd stopped a goddamn super villain straight out of the Bond movies or comic books last year! He doubted Xavier's people would have done so, at least not quickly enough in time to stop it. It had been crazy to even consider all of the disparate crimes this time last year going on in the precinct had actually been the plans of a mastermind pulling a Moriarty. Even now, Clint knew they'd been damn lucky, wasn't sure how they'd managed to put it all together –

Shit! Was that it? They certainly were once more trying to put together a puzzle without knowing how many pieces it contained, or what the picture looked like, but what if it wasn't a puzzle, just a bunch of independent pictures that shared a common element? Tony had a t-shirt that illustrated that, one that was just a bunch of words within circles that overlapped one other except for where they all came together over the logo of the television Firefly, a kind of Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon but with common concepts instead of common actors.

Clint couldn't remember what Tony and Bruce had called it and, of course, it didn't really  matter other than thinking about it was distracting enough that he wanted to ask one of them anyway, but couldn't since Shostakov and Stalyenko were still going at it hammer and tongs. Or was that hammer and sickle –

Without giving it conscious thought, Clint moved from where he'd been standing steady, grabbing for Stalyenko's shoulders and manhandling him aside. Sure enough, Shostakov shot to his feet, apparently tired of just yelling or having been goaded far enough. Clint also hadn't thought about what Stalyenko's handler might do in seeing what looked like Clint doing the assault, but Thor made his own move to put himself between Clint and the handler, and could still reach out and stop Shostakov from completing his punch.

Clint loved having Tasha as his partner (maybe more than he'd appreciated Eric and all that he'd taught Clint about the job at the time), he had no qualms about having only her at his side when they took down a perp, but for sheer physicality, no one was better or more intimidating than their Viking warrior, Donald "Thor" Blake. (Okay, maybe Bruce could be more intimidating when enraged, but they all did what they could to make sure that didn't happen very often.)

The handler checked his movement. Shostakov tried to wrench his wrist from Thor's grip, his eyes widening when it didn't work the first time, but he then raised his other hand, not to hit but to show he was under control. Thor let him go, which he did, straight out the door, which he then slammed behind him.

Shit.

"Kid, you really are a dumbshit," Clint told him as he let Stalyenko go too. "He's not going to let you near Yelena again, much less consider letting you date her."

"What do you know, old man!" Stalyenko railed back, pivoting to get into Clint's face. "You don't know love, unless it with your own hand or your gun, you stupid American cowboy. All police are facists and –"

"Enough, Yuri," Thor rumbled. Given the effortless way he'd stopped both the kid's handler and Shostakov, Stalyenko at least proved smart enough to step back and shut up for a minute.

"You speak things you have heard other people say but do not know for yourself. It only makes you sound young and foolish, not self-sufficient and capable of properly caring for another." After putting he kid neatly in his place with just words, Thor turned to Clint.

"I've got this, Clinton. Go see to Dr. Shostakov."

Clint hated leaving Thor alone in such a volatile atmosphere but he, like Steve, were the least likely of them to need back-up from Clint. Shostakov or whomever he ran into first, on the other hand, might. He nodded to Thor and made for the door himself.

"Be advised, Shostakov is on the loose," he warned as soon as the crossed into the corridor. "Tasha, he's probably headed your way, and is mad enough to spit nails. I highly recommend you get Yelena out of there and off to her slumber party now, even if it is earlier than planned. Her dad just might be mad enough to hit her."

"Not on my watch –"

"What's going on?" Phil interrupted what Clint knew was a promise from Tasha as well as a warning.

"If we are very unlucky, a Russian reenactment of the Hatfields and McCoys, with guest appearances by Romeo and Juliet."

"Aren't they basically the same thing?" Bruce asked.

Clint shrugged, though no one who mattered could see him do it. It wasn't like he actually knew, that was just something people said, something everyone knew. It wasn't as if he'd ever read any Shakespeare (although he had seen about half of the DiCaprio Romeo and Juliet, and had seen Shakespeare in Love several times all the way through, because Fiennes was hot, and the lead had reminded him quite a bit of Pepper), or had studied that much of American History, if he was going to be honest. Maybe it had been an Iowa thing, something about feuds in small towns –

"No, he's right," Tony defended him. "The Hatfield and McCoys didn't start out with star-crossed lovers like Romeo and Juliet. It was about land and the war, and who had fought on which side."

"Romeo and Juliet didn't start with the lovers either, Tony," Bruce protested." It opens with –"

"Clint?" Phil interjected, needing to say nothing more to rein those two in.

"I don't know the particulars, since they switched to Russian for their confrontation, but something Stalyenko said pushed Shostakov into taking a swing again until Thor and I stepped in. Shostakov then stormed out, leaving me to play catch up. Oh, and I think Stalyenko is not only capable of doing something even stupider than what he's already managed, but that he intends to get Shostakov out of the way. Maybe not permanently, but violently? In a fucking heartbeat. He may think he's in love, but he's also a conniving little fucker with a big chip on his shoulder and a hatred of authority figures."

Takes one to know one, but no one said it, and Clint liked to think he'd outgrown most of that anyway.

"Yelena, I know the compromise was that you could stay until Yuri made his presentation, but you are not safe here anymore," they heard Tasha trying to reason with her charge. "I must insist."

"Tell her Yuri isn't no longer going to be making his presentation," Phil suggested. "That he's arranged for a more public press conference to do it in tomorrow, so as not to overshadow his American counterpart's generosity tonight. Her only other choice would be to depart now, with her father, and miss the slumber party entirely."

"You've got a lot of confidence in me, boss," Clint muttered, knowing that Phil was entirely serious about those things happening, which meant he'd have to convince or muscle Shostakov out of there once he found him, to make that part true.

"Yes, I do, Clint."

Only that was Phil talking, his Phil, who was not his boss. The trouble was, that just made Clint more determined to do him right, even if he had no fucking idea how to deal with Shostakov right now beyond doing a little of his own hitting.

Tony made gagging noises, but said nothing worse, his attention getting recaptured by Bieber, who was apparently ready to head over to the reception.

Thor and Stalyenko, too. Surprisingly, however, Stalyenko seemed willing to go along with the later press conference/check presentation suggestion of Phil's, without Thor having to exert too much pressure; Clint heard Thor address someone that wasn't Stalyenko as well, so maybe the handler had seen the merit in the offer too. Or, more likely, the merit in keeping Stalyenko away from Shostakov a little while longer.

All great and good, except at the moment, Stalyenko could decide to arrive at the reception naked, for all that Shostakov would care. Shostakov had not headed immediately for the Annex as Clint had thought, or at least he'd never arrived. One of the other would have mentioned the moment he'd shown up and Clint was now there himself, doing his own looking over a crowd that had filled in, but didn't yet fill the room.

He exchanged a quick glance with Tasha, who'd not been able to convince Yelena to leave and now looked ready to resort to forcing her the leave, and had a quick moment to ogle Phil, who looked perfectly edible in his tux as Clint had expected, but was also doing that calm, competent thing in talking to Fury in addition to someone on the phone and scanning the room, which got Clint's motor running even faster than sharp clothes. The regret he felt for having to leave before getting a chance to really even look at Phil, much less greet him, was lessened by Phil sensing his arrival and giving him a look of warm regard before Clint slipped back out the entrance to continue looking for his wayward charge. Phil's looks could contain legions, a moment between them conveying feelings Clint had never been good at expressing with words.

Love and contentment, however, quickly disappeared back into frustration. When Clint took the time to consider things instead of moving on autopilot, he was surprised that the sense of danger he'd felt when in Stalyenko's dressing room wasn't nearly as strong as his growing anger over Shostakov running off. Sure, he'd feel stupid and guilty if Shostakov's continued invisibility was caused by someone else, but in his gut, he thought this was all Shostakov's doing, and nothing to do with outside or inside threats. He'd recognized the kind of rage Shostakov had embodied well before Shostakov had telegraphed his intent to strike down Stalyenko…

He'd recognized that kind of rage. Not from intuition, from a cop's sense of looming trouble, but from experience.

Clint stopped for a moment to take a deep breath and to unclench the fists his fingers had made, then looked to find one of the ushers who'd been scattered around to assist the patrons moving between the theatre and the annex ballroom.

"Where is the nearest open bar?"

She pointed two different directions, suggesting the one to the west might be less populated and, therefore, he'd have a shorter wait.

Clint didn't care about the damn wait, just which of them would have been the first Shostakov would had come across after being thwarted from acting on his rage. 

Shostakov had already put a few glasses away while the concert had been underway, not enough to appear drunk, but certainly with the ease and familiarity of someone who at least made of hobby out of drinking. After being denied his first outlet, Clint had no doubt he'd have gone seeking his second, seeking the solace, the excuse for his behavior, while all the while fueling his rage and letting it take him over. Clint knew the signs, had had them beaten into his mind and body before he'd turned six, had them become indelibly marked on his soul.

The bartender had no trouble identifying Shostakov. Or identifying the same signs Clint had seen. While he had poured, he'd also suggested that Shostakov take a walk to cool off, had pointed out an exit not too far way that led to an inner courtyard where Shostakov might find himself some peace. Shostakov, amazingly, had apparently listened.

Following the same directions, Clint knew as he turned the last corner, that someone had at least gone out to the courtyard; he could feel the freezing air coming in through a door that had to still be open, not so much belatedly remembering that Phil had said it had been snowing, as not caring before. Now, however, with his coat hanging in coat check, he figured he'd end up caring quite a bit if Shostakov really was there and unwilling to come back in. (It didn't help to remember how Tasha laughed every time he complained about New York's winter, when she told him that until he lived during the Epiphany Frosts of winter in Blagoveshchensk, the city she'd lived in with Shostakov Clint knew now, he had no right to complain.)

The good news here was Shostakov was indeed the one who'd opened the door, was out there in the courtyard, alone. And while he did have a glass in his hand, it looked mostly full. Of course, that didn't tell Clint how many Shostakov might have had before he'd come out here, but at least Shostakov wasn't radiating his rage as he had before. (Clint still wasn't going to approach to within arm's reach; fool me once…)

"Professor?" he called out softly, not wanting to startle Shostakov or disrupt the quiet the other seemed to have found.

"Detective," he was acknowledged.

Shostakov didn't turn from where he'd found a bench protected by an overhang. Clint decided to take the other's sitting there atop his jacket to protect his pants from getting wet as evidence that Shostakov had regained control of himself (at least enough to worry a little about his appearance and the weather),  but he still didn't move beyond the doorway. The six inch scar across his back, not to mention any number of other domestic disturbances he'd handled over his career, had taught him that calm didn't

always mean rational.

"Are you – "

"He said that he arranged with someone at the Consulate for papers that stated Yelena was eighteen, that they used them yesterday to obtain a marriage license from one of your courts and that they will use it tomorrow while I am giving my lecture.  That if I try to stop them in any way, he will convince my Yelena to seek asylum by telling your people I assault her, that I take her to my bed and use her as if she were my wife instead of my daughter, and that he has video and witnesses to prove it."

Okay. Clint could totally see whey Shostakov had gone for Stalyenko; the guy had actually shown quite a bit of restraint if that's what really had been said. It might also explain something in the meeting between Stalyenko's keyboardist and the Consulate goon that Bruce had witnessed; could have been a payoff, a handoff, or just making sure their ducks were in order if Shostakov didn't play ball.

"Listen, Alexei, the age of consent here in New York is seventeen. If they actually had sex yesterday in his hotel – "

Shostakov let out a sound like a wounded animal, interrupting and reminding Clint of one of the reasons he'd never wanted to work SVU cases; he could handle helping the victims, but when parents also were involved, parents who actually loved their children…

"We can arrest Stalyenko on a Class A misdemeanor sexual misconduct charge," Clint finished quickly, ignoring not just an unwelcome rush of memories, but the noises the others made when they got clued in at least partially to what was going on through the comm.

"We also might be able to add on a corruption of a minor and some sort of facilitation in document fraud if he's the one who arranged for Yelena's false passport. I doubt we could hold him for long, but it could give you time to talk to Yelena."

Clint wasn't sure who exactly was still there at the reception; he'd not heard anything from Tasha for several minutes now, so he figured she'd finally gotten Yelena to leave. Steve, too, to get Orina to the hotel since she was the hostess. He had no idea if Tony had needed to go with Bieber as far as his hotel, and if he did, if Tony would be coming back, which meant it might be only Phil, Bruce and Thor still listening in. Assuming Stalyenko hadn't decided to run while he could, dragging Thor along.

"If I give Yuri the thrashing he deserves, or take Yelena away, she will hate me and I will lose her. If I let her go, I will still lose her, but she should not hate me, so one day she might let me see her again. He is a celebrity, a rock god. I am only a father."

"Stalyenko is an asshat and, yes, you are a father," Clint spit out, growing angry with Shostakov too. "Yelena's father. This is about what's right for her, Professor, not you. You have to do the right thing even when it's painful. Especially when it's painful."

That got Shostakov to finally turn. His eyes and nose were red, not just from the cold, and not so much from drinking, Clint decided.

"Do you have children, Detective? Have I, we, been keeping you from your family?"

Clint baulked for a second, not wanting to answer such a loaded question since the easy answer wasn't what Shostakov was looking for. But this wasn't about Clint, either. (And it wasn't like Phil didn't already know, that the others hadn't already guessed whether they knew the particulars of his childhood and growing up or not.)

"No kids, at least not yet. Just a dad who didn't care enough and left me and my brother behind."

The quiet gasp was totally Phil. Clint decided it was for the maybe kids in the future comment, since they'd never really talked about it. Hoped Phil didn't think that Clint meant his relationship with Phil was just until someone who could give him children came along –

Shostakov took a deep breath and nodded his head, then stood. "Fathers can be very selfish. Can grow to worry or become fixated on the wrong things." He leaned over for his jacket, though he didn't bother putting it back on. "Thank you, Detective Barton. You have given me much to consider tonight and before, while I have done little but cause you difficulties and frustration. I should like to commend you directly to your ... boss. He is here tonight, yes?"

"Yes, Captain Fury is at the reception, but you don't need – " Clint stopped, not sure if he would be insulting Shostakov if he continued in that vein. He had a better way out anyway. "Actually, if we're going to arrest Stalyenko tonight, it would be better to have you tell Yelena it's happened than for her to hear it from him, along with whatever bull he might spin. I'd suggest making your apologies to the Ambassador, then us getting out of here. Captain Fury is also expecting to attend Ambassador Turgenov's luncheon tomorrow, I can introduce you then."

Clint actually had no idea if that was true or not, but since Fury had shown up tonight, it was a reasonable assumption. A better idea was to go ahead with the introduction tonight, but hustle Shostakov over to the Ambassador to say goodbye before the two of them had much of a chance to talk.

"Another fine suggestion, my friend. Lead on and I will follow."

The best idea was to get away from the fucking cold. If he had to go for his gun or cuffs right now, his hands would probably freeze on the metal.

*********

Clint had just decided to call it a night when he heard a knock on the front door. It was gone past midnight, Shostakov had turned in after an overly emotional tell all with the his daughter, and Yelena had opted to sleep in the other apartment with only Natasha as company, not exactly hating her dad but also not wanting to be right there with him after he'd broken her heart with the truth about Yuri Stalyenko. For the life of him, Clint couldn't imagine who would be knocking, other than maybe Tony, with some sort of weird offering of food or companionship since the night had turned out basically shit for all of them, and Tony didn't always sleep like a normal person. When it didn't repeat, he decided he'd been hearing things, decided it was definitely time to turn his brain off although he wasn't really planning on sleeping since he was technically still on watch duty. If he kept the television muted and stayed sitting instead of succumbing to curling up on the front room couch, while he'd no doubt fall asleep at some point, he'd still be in a position to hear something and react if there was any trouble.

His phone chimed with its text message alert. He picked it up and swiped his security glyph, saw it was from Phil, saw that he'd not been hearing things and that it was Phil at the door. With a shake of his head he got to his feet again and pulled his gun, because even with the heads up, Phil would give him shit if he answered any door without during a protection detail.

It wasn't just Phil. With paperwork. Bruce was striding up behind him, holding a bag and an impressively large thermos that was most likely filled with tea as Bruce didn't like the jitteriness and free floating anger he got from caffeine. Clint took a step back to let them in.

"You do know that paperwork is only going to put me to sleep, not keep me awake, right, boss?"

Instead of responding immediately, or even giving Clint a quick brush of hands (as was his usually wont of acknowledging their thing together when something more would be inappropriate and, in this instance, Shostakov walking out of his bedroom and see something Fury couldn't just ignore this time), Phil instead shot Bruce a look, who then nodded in return.

"I'm sure, Phil. I meant it when I suggested it. I just had to finish brewing enough tea to get me through until morning."

Another look from Phil, first to Bruce then Clint finally got his attention, though still not any direct acknowledgment. Clint had a feeling he should know what was going on regardless, but he was just too tired and wrung out to play detective. "Ah, guys, not that I'm minding the idea of company, but –"

Bruce shook his head. "Not company, Clint," he said as he moved into the apartment. Phil did not.

"I'm your replacement for the night. You are going to let Phil drive you home. To your real home, so you can sleep in your own bed. I did squat this evening, have probably had the easiest time of anyone throughout the detail, and my partner is off no doubt getting his hair braided and nails done by a bunch of young women, so I'm at loose ends. You, on the other hand, could use a night off and look like you need it. Dr. Shostakov will be all yours again in the morning, but tonight let Phil take you home."

Clint really didn't need the hard sell. Maybe it was inappropriate, but Phil was the type of supervisor that might have suggested the change up even if he and Clint weren't together, so Clint decided not to feel guilty over any special treatment.

"Thanks, Bruce. I owe you one." He already had his gun in hand and his coat was hanging on the rack at the door. His suit jacket was draped over the back of one of the chairs, along with his tie, but he hadn't gotten so far in relaxing as to take off his shoes, and it wasn't like he'd need tie or jacket for the drive; as far as he was concerned, Clint was ready to leave now.

Phil did a better job of picking up on that than Clint had their plan, and turned back toward the corridor after expressing his own appreciate over Bruce's generosity, though he waited for Clint to get even with him before he started the walk to the elevator. One the apartment door closed behind them, Phil's hand finally touched him, moving to the small of Clint's back and encouraging Clint to invade his personal space back before Clint putting on his coat would relegate all the touches to just be between gloved hands.

"So did Stalyenko's handler get to scream at Fury?" Clint asked, knowing only that Thor had waited until sometime after he and Shostakov had left the reception before arresting the dickwad, probably also after the Ambassador had departed so as not to embarrass their host, not out of any consideration for Stalyenko's reputation.  They were all damn zealous in their duties when it came to kids being hurt or taken advantage of by adults, but Thor generally took it the worst, being the only one of them, really, who'd had a normal childhood and both of his parents still alive and around to love him, for all that they still lived in Norway. Thor didn't have near the same levels of cynicism and experiences the rest of them had, even Steve, and still got shocked by what some people did to or expected out of kids.

Phil gave him a smile that lit up his whole face. "Actually Comrade Petrovitch corroborated the nature of Mr. Stalyenko's threats instead of making demands that we release the little shit into his or the Consulate's keeping." He kept his hand on Clint as they entered the elevator, then tugged to have Clint lean into him as he leaned against the back wall.

Clint had no objections to that arrangement, even if he hadn't felt dead on his feet.

"Petrovitch also knew where the forged documents that had been set up for Yelena were, and handed them over," Phil told them as the number went down, not that Clint had his eyes opened to watch. "He stated that he did not believe she's seen or used them yet, so we won't have to look at also having to indict her to make the charges against Stalyenko, and he doubts a marriage license was actually obtained yet, as he's not actually sure Stalyenko really wants to marry Yelena, if she'll just run away with him."

That got Clint's eyes opened, and his blood up enough he considered foregoing putting on his coat now that they'd hit the lobby. One look outside at the snow that was still falling had him deciding not to be stupid, though, even if Phil's was now directing him toward the elevator to the parking garage and he wouldn't actually have to go outside until they got to the diner. If Phil was considering the diner; Phil's place was closer and as much Clint's home now as Buck's old place was.

 

"Did he say anything about the witnesses or video?" he asked with a smile despite the implication of his question. Even with it snowing Phil had driven over in Lola instead of his tank of a Crown Vic. Clint loved Phil's '62, cherry red 'Vette probably as much as Phil did.

"Only that Stalyenko does have the contacts to be able to pull it off. That he's not above trolling his own fansites for favors and gifts."

That Phil shut Lola's door harder than he normally would ever consider treating his baby told Clint how  disgusted Phil was with the punk. Clint gave Lola a little pat as he went around to his own side and was extra careful in shutting his own door, though he always was; it wasn't that long ago where Phil didn't bring his special girl to work just so he didn't have to allow other people to ride in her, Clint included. Considering Clint was still the only one other than Fury or Jasper who'd been allowed into the passenger seat beyond Phil's sister or mom, he really didn't feel bad that he hadn't yet been offered the keys even once.

"Petrovitch agreed to notify the Consulate of Stalyenko's difficulties and to obtain a lawyer on his charge's behalf, just in case, but he told me he's not doing anything more until morning. So, if nothing else, Stalyenko has a night in jail ahead of him before we end up dropping the charges in lieu of him being escorted to a plane, kicked out of the country, and put on DHS's no-fly list," Phil added, his voice smug as he shifted the gear shaft and took them out into the night. It was almost pretty, the snow and the city lights, most of the traffic being scared away that they weren't really sharing the road with anything but a handful of hearty taxi-drivers.

"Not enough for nearly destroying two people's lives, but I guess it's a good start. I really didn't think I'd end up feeling sorry for Shostakov in this," Clint admitted, bringing his hands up to scrub at his eyes. "On the one hand, in a way it's almost payback, considering he was just as much a sleazebag when he was told to seduce Tasha by their handlers no matter that Tash was a few years older."

For a moment Phil lifted his hand from the gear shift to reach over and squeeze Clint's hand. "I think even Natasha has sympathy for Shostakov after tonight. Seeing him as human, vulnerable, could also let her release some of the demons she earned in her time with him, if she's willing to let them go. Although demons help someone forge their armor, people sometimes forget that armor also weighs them down and keeps them at a remove from the rest of the world."

Clint knew Phil wasn't just talking about Tasha's demons. Certainly the tiredness Clint was feeling wasn't just from it having been a long couple of days with less than optimal sleep. This case had churned up bits of his own past, to the point where Clint was expected a nightmare or two once he fell asleep, but maybe not. As hard has he'd thought admitting what little he had to Shostakov would be, once he'd said it, even knowing at least some of the squad had heard it and made their own, more accurate interpretations, he felt lighter now about it all than he expected. While he'd always thought people were their secrets, maybe sharing them didn't unmake you, at least if the secret was given freely instead of revealed against your will.

He turned a smile to Phil, then leaned his head against the side window so he could watch Phil's understated competence while driving, figuring the cold leaching in over Lola's heat would keep him awake whereas just leaning back or staring out the window might not. They passed the rest of drive, to Phil's, not that Clint was surprised or unhappy about it, in silence, save for Lola's throaty purr and the odd horn here or there from other drivers. A comfortable silence, at least as far as Clint was concerned, and Phil didn't look disappointed or stressed when Clint didn't take up his dangling bait to open up more than he already had.

Phil already knew the worst things in Clint's past, the important things that could fuck up their relationship coming out in the wrong way or the wrong time, because Clint did what he could to own his own shit. And Phil still seemed to like, to maybe love, Clint anyway, so Clint couldn't even really regret those things that had happened, considering their confluence  had led him to Phil, where any one thing having been changed, even the bad shit, would have left Clint somewhere other than New York and its police force. Other than Phil's bed, which Clint was very much looking forward to in a few minutes, especially if being there involved kissing and a few other things that had been back-burnered as of late. Sure, he was tired, but he'd have to be dead to be that tired.

The kissing actually started in the garage and continued once in the elevator. An advantage of living in an upscale neighborhood like Cobbie Hill and not having the opportunity to meet his neighbors like Clint's place in Mott Haven, the neighbors didn't really know Phil either. The few who were more than a nodding acquaintance thought Phil was a government accountant (or spy, the vote was split), and in not knowing he was actually a cop, they had no reason to out Phil and Clint's relationship to One PP. Nor were Clint and Phil the only gay couple living in the building, so a little kissing in the elevator didn't raise many eyebrows as long as it didn't go too far (and Clint knew that Phil wouldn't want it to go too far, but then Clint also valued his and their privacy too much to really consider it, despite Tony's prodding.)

Not that there were any eyebrows to be raised tonight in the first place. Alone in the elevator led to alone in the corridor, led to some serious making out. Once they got beyond the threshold and into the apartment, any privacy concerns would go right out the window, although Clint supposed he might want to work to be quiet since it was now past one.

He quickly texted Bruce and Tasha to let them know he and Phil were in for the night while Phil hung their coats in his hall closet. Clint nearly dropped the phone when Phil turned around. As sexy as Clint found Phil in his tux, all proper and perfect, it was when Phil allowed himself to relax into Dean Martin casual (sans the drink glass and cigarette), as Clint called it, it was like Phil turned into catnip for Clint's randy tomcat. Bow-tie pulled loose but still framing the couple of opened pearl buttons that displayed a hint of chest hair…

The pouncing, Clint decided, had been mutual since he was the one who ended up with his back pressed against the nearest wall and Phil pressed against him. They were a little too old – okay, too practical – to just pull and shred buttons. Fortunately, Clint had clever, dexterous hands, and Phil was a great multitasker. Clint also wasn't sure he wanted Phil's jacket and shirt removed yet, didn't need them gone to get access to skin –

"If I tug your shirt, I'm going to pull on your wrist," Phil breathed more than said against his neck. Clint's very sensitive neck. "Is that going to be a problem?"

Considering Clint had forgotten he'd broken it and it was still only in the soft cast, he thought not, but the last thing they needed was for fun, sexy times to get derailed because he fucked with his wrist.

"Let's leave the shirts and just get to work on the pants," he suggested, problem solved, as he started to put action to words.

Phil answered by slipping out of his shoes, not really one for having his pants hanging around knee or ankle. Clint really wasn't either; besides the danger it could produce, it wasn't the sexiest of looks, although the sheer need that made it happen every so often anyway did a lot to gloss over the inherent absurdity.

Clint ditched his own shoes but left on his socks; Phil's floors were dark-stained hardwood, beautiful but also cold when coming back to after only minimal heat had been maintained during the time it was empty. Socks weren't particularly sexy either but, one: cold meant shrinkage, which was not on tonight's agenda; and two: he really wasn't looking at his own or Phil's feet.

Turned out shrinkage wasn't remotely a problem, unless their rutting against one another like adolescents made things happen too fast.

Clint pushed, or Phil tugged. They didn't break their kissing, nibbling, licking at the one spot in the right hollow of Phil's neck that made him squirm, but then Phil had an excellent sense of spatial awareness, and Clint almost preternatural peripheral vision, so there were no untoward incidents as they slid down the floor toward the bedroom. To the bed, which Clint pushed Phil onto before following him down; his turn to do the pressing.

They slowed down, the rush they'd felt from getting this unexpected opportunity to be together mellowing into something more sensual than sexy, into love over lust. They had the night, for sex, for sleeping, for just holding one another and letting thoughts of Russians, terrorists and even their friends fade away until the world contained only the two of them, in synch, body and soul.

 

_Second Squad, this is Dispatch. Be on the lookout for a wandering homeless man who may or may not be wearing anything other than boxers and his socks. He's not really homeless, other than his girlfriend kicked him out when he came in late last night and started pestering her for sex. When she said no and he complained about getting blue balls, she decided to let him really know what that meant._

Morning found Clint waking up before the alarm, which was a surprise given the recent late nights, and before Phil, which was an even bigger surprise because, well, Phil, who lived a well-ordered life, including his sleep habits. While Clint would have liked to roll over and go back to sleep, ten minutes wouldn't gain him anything and, anyway, this gave him the rare opportunity to simply lie next to his lover and wallow in thoughts of what it would be like to be able to do this every morning.

They'd talked about moving in together (Tony had talked to them about moving in together, because Tony wanted everyone from the squad living in the empty apartments of his building and so far, even after two years of cajoling, only Bruce had decided he could live with Tony Stark as his landlord and neighbor). Clint certainly wanted that, but not at the expense of either his or Phil's job and, so far, the compromise of spending the nights they could, switching between their two places, worked.

Like everyone else, Phil looked younger in his sleep, not necessarily different and relaxed, since Phil so rarely allowed himself to look anything but calm and unflappable and, when he did, Clint was one of the very few privy to seeing him completely undone. Phil looked unguarded right now, the lines of stress, age and laughter that even his iron control couldn't defeat, smoothed and faint save for those that still crinkled around Phil's eyes as if he was amused even in his sleep.

Even now, after two years, it was humbling to see anyone, to be allowed to see someone so vulnerable. To be trusted with this. It was more than a little frightening, too, to know he trusted Phil the same in return. Clint's past was rife with lessons that trust led only to heartache and betrayal, so much that Clint had thought he couldn't trust like that again. That was Phil, though, so goddamn steady and patient, but also focused and exacting, unyielding when the goal was something he thought necessary. By the time Clint had realized he himself was the goal, he'd already been snared by his attraction to competency and self-possession, not to mention his kink for older men. (Not that the eight years between them meant much in the way of general life experience, their sexual compatibility or the other goals in life. For Clint it was more the thought of someone not as screwed up and stupid, or at least someone who'd grown past that kind of shit, which had fueled that particular kink when he was young, whereas now it was still a source of innate comfort, just not a major thing.)

"Did you want to keep looking, or did you want to come over here for the last minutes?" Phil asked, as if there was any question of what Clint would do. His eyes stayed closed, but Phil was turning so that he rested on his back. He then spread out an arm, giving Clint an invitation to come to him and rest on his side with his head on Phil's shoulder. Clint rolled. He slid his legs under Phil's, then carefully rested his right arm, still with the temporary cast, across Phil's pelvis and let his fingers make mindless movements back and forth on Phil's hip bone while occasionally drifting around and lower to cup the swell of flesh when he went under the leg of Phil's nighttime boxers. Phil's left arm, in turn, followed his right, but instead of spread eagle on the bed, his fingers made their own patterns of rubs and softer swipes that brought up goose flesh and garnered tiny moans of pleasure from them both.

It might not be time for them to move in together yet, but Clint could foresee it happening in the near future. It would be worth whatever wrath One PP decided to rain down on them to have this at any time.  Transfer, retirement, maybe going into the private or federal sector, but maybe, too, someone with intelligence would see their arrest records and accomplishments, and decide that their closeness made them a more effective team, not one  worse and more vulnerable.

Assuming they didn't screw up these last two days with Shostakov and the Ambassador.

******

After Phil drove Clint back to Stark Tower and he took back his job from Bruce, Phil simply didn't leave. Not until they all did, Clint, Shostakov, Tasha, Yelena, and Phil, heading out to the campus for Shostakov's Unity Day lecture. There they ran into the rest of the squad, Steve and Bruce both coming out with the Ambassador who had decided he'd be the one introducing Shostakov to the audience as well as act as moderator for the Q&A session at the end of Shostakov's presentation. Tony and Thor had also shown up, since they had been released from their duties, with Stalyenko still in lock-up (at least for the length of the lecture), and Bieber had already jetted away to his next concert venue or home; Tony hadn't cared other than the singer was departing, so Tony hadn't asked.

The plan, when it had only been the two of them, had been for Tasha to remain upstage with Yelena, out of sight from the audience in the wings. Clint had found a spot up on the catwalk amidst the lighting rig where he could see not just Shostakov, Tasha and his daughter, but also have a pretty good eye on the audience; some of the attendees were getting class credit and might want to take notes, so the lighting would be dimmed but not turned completely down. Now they had an embarrassment of riches: Steve would no doubt remain alongside Tasha as the Ambassador made his contribution to the lecture, and that would leave Bruce, Tony, Thor and Phil to take up positions in the back of the auditorium as well as one or two of them taking a seat down near the stage, in case someone decided to rush it.

Except it turned out that acting as moderator was not the only change to the plan that the Ambassador had decided to make.

The protesters were out in full force as they'd driven in, and this time instead of just throwing out jeers and protests, there had been a few rocks, a bottle or two, and other, mostly harmless trash. It was enough to spook both Shostakov and Ambassador Turgenov, the latter so much so, that he started making demands of Regent Mills the instant they met up.

"You have a television studio here on campus, yes? Or at least the capability to stream live video feed through close circuit television?"

Regent Mill's nodded, looking bewildered and also wary.

"You will take us someplace safe, then, no access for students, staff or public. Auditorium fills with ticket holders and they watch lecture on projection screens or giant monitors, whatever you have available, while Professor Shostakov speaks to camera. Afterward, when time for questions, someone, you or maybe one of these fine detectives, take microphone to public and let them ask their questions. This way, security and unruliness is no problem, and if protestors make too much trouble anyway, we cut feed and make lecture available through Consulate website for those who are disappointed. You can do all this, yes? Make best of dangerous situation?"

To say the Ambassador steamed right over Regent Mills was putting it lightly, but Clint had to admit it was a pretty elegant solution, and it would make the squad's job a piece of cake. Sure, Phil would probably still station a couple of them in the auditorium, just in case the people who'd paid for their tickets got a little rowdy, and he and Tash, or maybe he and Phil would stay on site in the studio to be on hand, but none of them would be actively seeking out trouble, which would make the time go by a whole lot faster.

Shostakov, for an instant, looked like he might be the one to protest against the Ambassador's not really a suggestion, but Yelena clutched at his arm and leaned in, the two of them conversing quietly and in Russian for a few moments, and then Shostakov nodded. Likely the Ambassador hadn't been the only one remembering the sniper fire a couple of days back, or that there was always the possibility that Stalyenko had made a few more 'requests' for his fanclub to disrupt things here, since he'd been pretty damn confident he'd have already whisked Yelena away by this time to keep her out of any danger. (Clint couldn't see Stalyenko bothering to mention any back-up plans to his handler, given the guy had practically disowned knowing Stalyenko and had given up anything he knew about the singer's initial strategy, but even if Stalyenko had, the chances of the handler being able to call anything off on the singer's behalf was practically nil. Better safe than sorry were definitely the watchwords, today.)

Shostakov and Yelena weren't the only ones holding a secret conversation, as soon as Regent Mill's wandered off to see what he could arrange in regard to the new plan, Ambassador Turgenov pulled Phil and Steve aside too. Their conversation lasted minutes longer, long enough for the regent to return with word that things were being set up to the ambassador's request, and for him to explain to Shostakov (along with Tasha and Clint), where the professor would find the camera and a small film crew. Just as Clint was beginning to think they'd have angry people on their hands because of the lecture starting late, the three men stepped apart and the Ambassador turned to the Regent to get the low down himself.

Clint was pretty good at reading expressions for most people other than Phil when he was on duty. It's why he was so surprised to see him looking bemused, while Steve looked out and out gobsmacked. Clint wasn't sure what that boded, but he was getting the go ahead to escort the Shostakov's and, considering that's what he and Tasha were here for…

The lecture had been set up for the Auditorium. The room that got set aside for filming was, of course, on the opposite side of the campus. One of the other things Regent Mills had apparently arranged for, however, was a golf cart to transport them, so it could have been worse. He and Tasha took up positions to either side of Shostakov and Yelena, while Steve and Bruce sandwiched the Ambassador between them. Bruce took the steering wheel, but then the back seat was larger and better suited for seating four, though it wasn't going to be particularly comfortable.

The ride was short, fortunately, with no one talking unless you counted Shostakov mumbling as he was going through his notes. Because they hadn't really checked out this building in advance, Tasha and Steve got out first and Steve held his hand for the others to stay put while the two of them checked things out. Clint spotted a couple of groundskeepers along with students passing between buildings on their way to their classes. He studied them for the time it took Steve to come back out, but they seemed to be legit, and all the equipment they were utilizing appropriate for their job. Didn't mean there wasn't a rifle stuffed into the bags they were stuffing leaves and emptying grass clipping into, but neither of them made suspicious moves, either, as the team got their charges out of the cart and headed in, so Clint counted this as another win. 

Now, theoretically, they just had to hold their positions here and stay alert to any unauthorized arrivals over the next couple of hours, then get everyone to their cars and back to the Consulate for lunch. The entire squad would have a few hours downtime and return in the evening for the Ambassador's press conference, back at the Hôtel Plaza Athénée which would be the last of the official functions. The Shostakovs were due to fly out midday tomorrow, the whole mess finally finished, and Clint couldn't wait to get back to some real police work.

"Natasha and I will sit in on the filming unless one of you is really interested in Professor Shostakov's presentation," Steve offered.

Clint shook his head. "Hell, no! I heard enough of it while Shostakov was working on it in the apartment. It's all yours, buddy, and thanks."

Bruce simply shook his head; while normally he seemed to like campus lectures (having given his own over the years before he'd left physics behind), Clint had a feeling that Bruce had been biting his tongue the whole time he'd been looking out for the Ambassador, as the political motivations behind all of this was pretty blatant and contrary to Bruce's own leanings. Steve, at least, had experience in putting up with this type of bullshit dog and pony show while in the Army, and did a much better job of putting aside his own beliefs if that was the job.

Still, there had been whatever the Ambassador had told Steve and Phil that had had them both so one edge.

"Wait, Steve," Clint called him back. "I got the night off yesterday. I'll go inside if you, if there's something bothering you from when the Ambassador called you aside."

Unsurprisingly, Steve shook his head. "It's fine, Clint. Nothing to worry about until after this is over and, even then, it's good news if a little disconcerting. "

Steve did seem perfectly fine now, in his take charge mode, sure, but he was not going around like he was throwing himself on the wire so the rest of them could get away unscathed.

Clint nodded. "Okay, then. We'll patrol the perimeter and hallways."

"There are three students inside to run the tech. Otherwise, this building isn't currently in use for classes or really anything, so you can turn away anyone who approaches," Steve said with a grin. "Well, not the Regent, as I imagine he'll head this way after he explains the arrangement to audience. Phil said he's going to tap Tony for mic duty during the Q&A, while Thor keeps an eye on the crowd. Campus police are going to be centering their patrols in the area around the auditorium and keeping an eye on the protestors, and they'll relay anything we need to know to Phil. Quill out of the One O Seventh is also running street patrols around the general neighborhood and they're our backup if things start to get hinky or out of control."

Clint knew the name, but had never worked with Captain Peter Quill and he didn't think he knew any of the detectives or uniform patrols, but then he didn't come out to Queens all that often if he could help it; it wasn't like he rooted for the Mets or watched the National League much at all when it came down to it.

"Do you want inside or out first?" Bruce asked when Steve headed back in to the makeshift film studio.

"Let me start inside, if you don't mind. I'd like to get the building's layout in my mind, look for some vantage points and the like. I've walked the outside quad areas twice in the past week, don't really need a refresher course. Switch at halftime?"

Not that there was going to be a break, not even between the lecture and Q&A portion of the event, but two and a half hours had been scheduled, and switching up in the middle should keep the both of them more alert to things out of the ordinary.

"Sounds good."

**********

"You are fucking shitting me," Clint exclaimed, unable to stop himself from the unprofessional behavior despite being on the clock. He looked first toward Tasha, whose expression was more pissed than incredulous, then back to Phil. At least he now understood why Steve and Phil had both looked so surprised. And it was good news, as Steve had said, if he really thought about it. He could fully understand Tasha's reaction too, however, and Bruce's, who looked equally upset about being used like that.

"Apparently not," Phil said mildly, but then he'd had almost three hours to come to terms with it. And was not so much a half full, half empty kind of guy, but a how can I use this glass type, no matter the level of the interior.

"Given the difficulties and disturbances they've experienced, Ambassador Turgenov has decided his comments during the charity reception and then today during Dr. Shostakov's lecture has sufficiently fulfilled his need to celebrate Unity Day. He has canceled his press conference and canceled his request for our assistance. In addition, Dr. Shostakov, after a discussion with the Ambassador early this morning, has decided that he and Yelena will be departing back for Russia this afternoon, as soon as lunch is over, in fact. He has asked that you, Natasha, pack up Yelena's belongings for her to have ready for the Consulate driver when he comes to retrieve their luggage. So that's it. We're done. We are off the duty, and off duty in general for the rest of the day once I update Nick on the situation."

"Just like that?" Tony asked. "We go through all of that, put up with unending egos, identify a couple of moles within the Consulate, and expose a douchebag who thought it was a good idea to run away with his girlfriend in a foreign country, and then just get a pat on the head and sent home?"

Phil's voice was desert dry when he answered, his expression one of slight reproach. "Would you prefer explosions and more bullets? Massive riots and arrests?"

"I'd prefer not feeling like I'd been thrown away like used tissue once there was no need for me," Bruce was the one who answered this time. "That's really what this was about, right? The Ambassador had an idea that a couple of the people on his staff weren't to be trusted and the whole Unity Day celebration was just an easy form of distraction so he could smoke those who were disloyal out?"

Phil shrugged, but his face now had that certain look it got when he was sure of something but had little or no proof.

"So do you think State knew all about it from the get go?" Clint had to ask. "Is that the real reason it got shuffled down from the Feds and dumped on us at the local level?"

"Does it really matter?" Steve countered. "We did our jobs. Well, I should think, and no one got hurt, at least not seriously," he quickly added with a little embarrassed apology shot Clint and Tasha's way. "Sure, it's annoying to have been used, but in the end, we did nothing shameful and maybe earned a little good will with our Russian friends which, in turn, might make our jobs easier in the future. Can't we just count it as a win and leave it at that?"

 Steve Rogers was definitely a glass half full kind of guy.

"While I certainly would not care to be on protection detail all of the time, I found it to be interesting and a refreshing change of pace," Thor contributed his opinion on the matter.  "While I would have preferred young Yuri to not have held such Machiavellian schemes in his heart, nor to have had young Yelena left heartbroken, we did prevent a family from being torn apart, something I am not sure our brethren on the Federal level would have even thought to notice in their concern in uncovering terrorists that did not truly exist. Isn't helping people our calling? We should be feeling proud, not exploited."

Thor saw the lager still left, too, while the rest of them were all glass half empty. The thing of it was, while Clint might tease them occasionally for the unrelenting optimism, he'd also come to count on it, drew a sort of comfort from it. He thought the others did too, even Tony, though he would always complain about Boy Scouts and do-gooders. It might take Bruce a couple of hours to get over not just the Russians using them, but also their own State Department, if Clint's suspicions were right, but in the end, anything that left them whole and mostly sane was a good day in Bruce's book, just like it was in Clint's. As far as for Natasha, though…

This case had brought up a lot of baggage for the both of them and while Clint had necessarily exposed a part of his past, that had still been his decision. Tasha hadn't been given a choice, not in just letting go of a secret, but also a whole quiver full of memories and emotions she otherwise would never have displayed. It was over, but the repercussions would be felt for days if not weeks to come, and to find out it had all been for show; in a way the whole op was like dry loosing on a bow. No resolution, no arrow to absorb the potential. So all of that energy/adrenalin simply got vibrated back into them without getting dissipated, leaving behind cracks or other damage not always readily seen. He would have to corner her later, make sure she was okay, offer to be around to beat up if she wanted to aggressively work through the feelings she was still left with.  At least until Bucky got off work.

"So, lunch?" Phil offered.

"Who's up for shawarma?"

*******

To be honest, Clint had not expected to enjoy dinner. Okay, at the start of the day he hadn't even expected to _have_ dinner, other than a quick bite of heartburn from some drive-through, while he put in yet another night of babysitting.  So having the opportunity to actually sit down and order something decidedly not from a dollar menu had been a welcome if novel action given his last week. Only when Phil had mentioned what was on offer, a return to Daniel even if it wasn't going to be an eight-course meal this time, well, he feared the afternoon's shawarma was going to prove the better choice of a meal, though he certainly wasn't as fond of lunch's Arabic cuisine as Tony seemed to be.

His dinner companions weren't the problem; Tasha was well on her way to becoming his best friend as well as his trusted work-partner, and once Bucky got away from situations that demanded he be ADA James Buchanan Barnes, Esq., he was no longer the ass Clint previously found him to be before Tasha had come into both their lives. And, of course, Clint was having dinner in public with _Phil_ , not exactly being demonstrative in their affections, but also not so worried about being observed or outed to One PP over their relationship.  Remy and Logan rounded out the table; two friends Clint had never not had a good time with, even if he hadn't known them as long or as well as Phil had.

Clint's concern had been over the food and its presentation thereof. This time he'd had the chance to look at the menu on-line and, for a world-class French restaurant, few of the dishes had French sounding names. What they had instead were ingredients he couldn't pronounce, much less identify, like terrine, vadouvan and orange-yuzu. Normally, Clint was all about exploring the myriad of cultures and delicacies New York City had to offer with its restaurants, but in his past experience, places like this meant a wait-staff often more arrogant and pretentious than its patrons. And being made to feel out of place was never his idea of a fun time.

As it was turning out, however, Pepper had been right when she'd assured him the restaurant wasn't one of those places before she and Tony, like Steve, Thor and Fury, had declined in taking up Ambassador Turgenov's gesture (that they decided to take as an apology instead of the calculated bribe and savvy political maneuverings that was more likely the motivation; One PP had allowed it, and even Clint wasn't foolish enough to point out their hypocrisy, as the top brass had made it practically an order so as not to give insult). The wait-staff so far, had proved cheerfully helpful as well as attentive, explaining each dish without being prompted, and without making anyone(Clint)  feel  unsuitable in being there. Of course, for $3000 (the amount the Ambassador had prepaid for the skybox experience that had instead been cancelled on account of the sniper), the staff should be pleasant and timely, but this was more than an expected civility and professionalism.

In addition, the food, even if he still didn't really know what he was eating as often as not, was excellent. Still maybe not worth the price being charged, but then Clint had never tried to work on the presentation of his own cooking when he opened the diner, and it certainly looked labor intensive if not sometimes silly. They'd each order different things and were exchanging forks, something Clint certainly wouldn't have expected for a place like this, but then they weren't the only ones doing it from the looks of it. He still wasn't sure if he was surprised or not that Logan had picked the best tasting everything so far, despite Remy and Tasha having the more sophisticated palates given the traveling they'd done throughout the world in their earlier lives.

"So, there's a rumor going around that Tony Stark was caught wearing a Justin Bieber t-shirt," Logan brought up after they picked out six mouth-watering deserts. "Please tell me you have video."

\-- finis -- 

 


End file.
